Last night I dreamed that I was a frog, which reminded me of the last winter we had before everything fell apart. Because during that winter, Dad took me to the movie theater to see The Princess and the Frog. I want to go to the movies with him again, but I know that's never gonna happen. 

I feel a little bit like I'm watching a movie sometimes, though. Like right now I feel like I am. Because I'm sitting off to the side with my chin in my hands, watching as everyone else performs. Except this performance isn't a movie. It's killing walkers and slamming on the fences. Watching this kind of sucks, though. I'd much rather watch The Princess and the Frog. 

The good thing about always feeling like I'm watching a movie, though, is that I know a lot about just about everyone. They don't think I know a lot about them because I'll never tell anyone all the things I know about them, but I do know things. Like Lori and Rick ain't gettin' along so well, and Carl has a big, fat crush on Beth, and Carol and my dad are becoming good friends. And that's only the start of it. 

Anyway, just like in every other situation, I'm not at all helpful in this one. So I just sit and wait as everyone else does the hard work. 

It takes a little while, but eventually, the group of people who went in, which includes Dad, Rick, Maggie, Glenn, and T-Dog, come back to tell us that it's clear and we should go inside now. They're all covered in blood and slime, and it makes my stomach twist. That's another reason I'm not killing walkers. First of all, I'm far too weak to even get my knife through a skull anymore- even the old, rotting ones. And, second of all, seeing everything makes me feel so sick. So when we walk through the prison, I keep my eyes straight on my shoes and cling to Glenn's hand for direction. 

"What do you think?" I hear Rick ask as we enter the cellblock. I can hear someone dragging a body across the floor. I try not to think about his family.

"Home sweet home," Glenn sarcastically replies. 

"For the time being," Rick says. 

Glenn gestures to the stairsteps and I sit down on them, quickly pressing my palms into my eyes, trying to rub away the thoughts of these people's families- their kids, their mommas, their daddies, their brothers, their sisters. 

It sounds dark, but it's easier for me to imagine that their kids, mommas, daddies, brothers, and sisters are all dead, too, so that they could be together in Heaven. So they don't have to miss each other with aching chests and heavy eyes. 

I press myself as close to the railing as I can, so I'm not blocking anyone's way. As soon as I can get myself and my thoughts together, I'll see where my dad is and pick out a cell to stay in. 

"It's secure?" Lori asked, probably letting her eyes wander all over the blood-splattered walls and cold, empty cells. 

"This cellblock is," Rick answers. That isn't necessarily what I wanted to hear him say. Really, I wanted to hear him say that the whole place is clear and we're all safe and sound, but that's just a pipe dream. We'll never be safe and sound again, no matter where we go. I'm trying to come to terms with that. 

"What about the rest of the prison?" Hershel asks. His voice sounds slightly concerned. 

"In the morning, we'll find the cafeteria and infirmary," Rick answers. 

I'm sort of dreading and looking forward to them finding the cafeteria. I know it'll be good for me, in the long run, but the idea of eating food always seems to make me feel uneasy. 

"We sleep in the cells?" Beth asks, her voice wobbling a bit. She's a little bit like me. She feels things far in her heart, and you can see it in how she acts. A soft voice and a sweet smile, despite how badly things might be going. 

"I found keys on some guards. Daryl has a set, too."

"I ain't sleepin' in no cage." There's my dad's voice, coming from up above us. He's on the second level, up the stairs. I suppose I've got to go up there, then, too. I get myself up onto my feet, despite how hard my body fights against me, and I drag myself up the stairs. "I'll take the perch," Dad announces to everyone. 

Gradually, everyone makes their way to their respective cells, deciding who they'll share with or where they want to be. 

When I reach the top of the stairs, Dad holds a hand out to me and I take it without a second thought. "Hey, Dad," I say quietly, avoiding letting my eyes drift to the blood on his clothes. 

"Hey, Junebug," he says, giving my hand a squeeze. I squeeze his hand back. I'm not entirely sure, but I think that the squeezes mean, are you okay? and, yeah, I'm ok. "You pick out a cell yet?" Dad asks me. 

"Mm-mm," I hum, shaking my head a little. 

"You wanna stay out here with me?" he offers, gesturing to the thin mattress he dragged out to the top of the stairs. I don't know why he wants to stay out here. It feels less safe, in my head. I think, maybe, in his head, he feels like he has to protect everyone by keeping watch out here. I could be wrong, though. I don't know. 

Either way, I don't really wanna stay out here. I feel bad saying it, though, because I don't want Dad to think it's because I don't want to be with him. That ain't it at all. I like being with him. I just don't think I'd ever be able to sleep out here. Not until the blood is cleaned and the bodies are cleared, at least. Subtly, I shake my head, just a little bit. 

"Yeah, I thought you'd want a cell," Dad says with a short nod. He must know me well. I am his kid, after all. "You want it up here or down there?"

"Up here," I answer. Why would I walk all the way up these steep, metal stairs if I didn't have to? I keep that comment to myself, though. 

"A'right. Hold on a sec," Dad murmurs. He quickly steps down the stairs, grabs some things off of the ground, and climbs back up. He's got a blanket under his arm and my backpack over his shoulders. "C'mon." He puts his hand on my back, gently pushing me along forward. 

I stand by the railing as Dad pops his head into each little cell. I'm not sure what he's looking for, but I figure he's doing it for a reason because my dad doesn't do much of anything unless he has a reason to do it. He's not big on wasting time. He likes to get things done, always. After checking through each cell, he decides on the third cell on the second floor.

Dad looks at me and jerks his head toward the cell, silently telling me to follow him. We go inside and he places my bag on the floor and my blanket on the bed. "How's this?" he asks. 

Remarkably, the cell doesn't have blood in it, as far as I could see. I bet that was what he was checking for. Blood. He knows I hate it. "Good," I say. 

I never imagined that this is what cells look like. I thought they'd be a little brighter, with lights and all. Momma never made it out to be so bad in prison, but maybe she was just trying to make it so I wouldn't worry. I get that. I was always worried about her. When I was more little, I would cry about her, worrying so much.  

I know, I know. I'm a big baby and I always have been. It isn't so bad, though, really. Dad used to get annoyed with me for how often I'd cry, but he also used to say that my kindness, as he called it, was a good thing. So it was awful confusing, trying to figure out if it was a blessing or a curse. 

Now that I'm older, though, I have come to understand that to feel everything so deeply is both a blessing and a curse. Because the happy things, like thinking about Lori's baby or listening to Beth's singing, make my stomach fill with some sort of joy that swells up in my chest until I have to take a deep breath and squeeze my eyes shut to stop myself from squealing in delight. 

But, then again, that means the sad things hurt me just as much. Even just a little comment made by someone, even if it is really meaningless, can make my heart sink to my stomach. It can make my eyes burn and my throat tighten. It can make the air in my lungs feel like it weighs a million pounds and drag me deep into the ground. The worst part is, though, that the comment doesn't even have to be made toward me. Someone can say anything that could only possibly be interpreted as mean to absolutely anyone and it will make my whole heart ache with sadness. 

Like watching Rick and Lori drift apart from each other, despite their shared son and unborn baby. Sometimes seeing the look on Lori's face when Rick dismisses her without a word makes me feel like crying. Just because I can imagine how sad Lori must be feeling on the inside. She must be scared. She's having a baby at the end of the world and her husband is pulling away from her. I may have never had a baby or had a husband, but I'm sure that has got to hurt deeply. Heck, she doesn't even know if she'll make it out of having that baby. For all she knows, she could die giving birth. But she'll give birth anyway because she's strong like that. 

Truthfully, however, I wouldn't change myself for the world. I can't imagine it could be any better to feel nothing at all. Or to feel it all and bottle it inside, pretending that it doesn't feel like anything. In my mind, I'd rather feel it all than not feel any of it. You've got to honor your emotions, I think. Or else why would they be there at all?

Dale would understand what I'm saying, I bet. But I'm not sure if my dad would, so I keep all these thoughts in my head, where no one else can find them. 

"Good?" Dad echoes my words, double-checking, just to be sure. 

"Yeah," I say with a nod. I sit down on the bottom bunk of the bed and my dad sits down right next to me. "You think Momma's cell looked like this?" I ask. 

"I don't know. It might a' been less empty," Dad tells me. I turn to look at him, raising my eyebrows to express my confusion. Why would it be less empty? "You sent your mom letters and stuff, 'member?" Dad says. 

"Yeah," I say, shrugging my shoulders. I sent letters, pictures, and sometimes drawings.  

"She gets to keep 'em- or she got to keep 'em," Dad tells me. I try to focus on the fact that my mom got to keep my letters rather than focusing on the correction my dad just made. From gets to got. Because I can't send her letters anymore. 

"You think, maybe, she hung 'em up or somethin'?" I ask, raising my eyebrows hopefully. 

"Yeah, maybe," Dad confirms. I like to think my mom's cell wasn't so empty. That she had reminders that we were still patiently waiting for her outside, excited to be able to hug her again. That me and Dad, despite how much we missed her, were alright. Not great, but alright. "You wanna get to bed now, or what?" Dad asks me, poking his finger into my side. 

I squirm away from his hand, letting a giggle escape from my lips. "Ok, fine," I huff, even though I ain't even really tired. He scooches over to the side, lifting the blanket up for me to crawl under. I do so reluctantly, making it clear to him that I don't feel like sleeping again. I do too much of that already. 

"Don't be a turd," Dad says, rolling his eyes at me. 

"A turd?" I ask, my eyebrows shooting up. 

"Yeah. Don't be a turd."

"You're a turd," I huff, narrowing my eyes and suppressing my smile. 

Dad stares at me with a small, soft smile on his face. He's probably thinking something sweet, but I'm not sure what. Either way, I turn and press my face into my pillow to hide the fact that I'm smiling, too. He's lying on top of my blanket, making it so I can't pull it further over my shoulders because he weighs, like, a billion pounds. 

"You're stealin' my blanket," I say, tugging at the fabric. It only stretches, though. None of it comes free. 

"Who said it was your blanket?" Dad teases, raising his eyebrows. 

"You ain't even usin' it," I huff. I try one more time to pull it out from under him, but I can't. I'm exhausted before it even moves an inch, and I drop my arms back down to my sides, giving up completely. Dad sees this and lifts his back, pulling the blanket out from under him and using it to cover me up. I probably should have been able to get the blanket out from under him, and I think we both know that, and it bothers the both of us. "You really think there's gonna be good food?" I ask. 

"I think so," Dad says nodding. But his expression saddens a bit, like he feels guilty saying what he's about to say. "But you know, if you don't like it, you really gotta eat it, anyway, June. You just gotta."

I do know that. And it makes my whole body fill with anxiety, but I don't want to make Dad feel any worse about it than he already probably does, so I lift the corners of my lips into a small, fake smile, trying to say that it's ok. "I know," I say. 

He puts on a small, fake smile, too. We're both pretending to be ok. "How'd ya get to be so sweet, huh?" he whispers. 

I hate when he asks that because, the truth is, I don't really know. I can't say that, though, because that would be mean to him and my mom. Really, they aren't very sweet people. They're good people, in their hearts, but they ain't like Dale or Sophia. 

Instead of answering him, I ask another question myself. "How long d'you think 'til I get better?" is the question I ask him. It's a sad question, I know, but I have to ask it. 

And the question makes my dad frown, just like I thought it would. He sighs, twisting a strand of my hair around his finger and avoiding eye contact with me. "I don't know, June," he says. I don't know if you'll ever get better is what I bet he really wanted to say. 

"I can get better than I am now. I was better before," I say, furrowing my eyebrows. I wasn't ever a perfect eater. Not once in my life have I gotten through a full meal without feeling sick or leaving food behind on the plate. But I was never like this until the Change. "I can get better if I just eat. Like, if we find good food. I can eat it and I'll be better."

"That ain't exactly how it works, June," Dad says with a sigh. 

"How d'you know?" I ask, a bit more sassily than I mean to. 

"It ain't the same as it was before. It was just the picky eatin' before, and now you're sick- actually sick- because that's what happens when ya don't get enough food in ya. And that doesn't just go away, baby," Dad tries to explain. He still won't look me in the eyes fully. 

"Why not?" I whine. I thought the food was supposed to make me better, even if I don't like it. 

"Because. Hershel thinks you got-" He stops and sighs, probably trying to figure out how to put it into terms that I'll understand. "Look. Your body ain't used to gettin' lots a' food anymore and it ain't gonna take it well. It's gon' fight you on it. So you gotta take it slow. It's gonna take a while."

"I don't want it to take a while, Dad. I wanna feel better," I say, trying not to let my sadness or frustration bleed through. He can tell, though, I bet. He can always tell. Moms and dads; they just can sometimes. 

"I want you to feel better, too, June. You know I do. But we gotta be careful and listen to Hershel," Dad tells me. 

My eyes are burning. My heart is hurting. 

"Hey," Dad taps my cheek with his pointer finger. I bite down on my bottom lip and look at his face again. "You will get better. I promise. Just gotta take it slow, a'right?"

"Ok," I whisper.

"Ok," Dad echoes, rubbing his thumb over my cheekbone. He presses a kiss on my forehead. "You tired enough for bed yet, or do I gotta make ya run laps or somethin'?"

"I'm tired enough," I tell him. It ain't true, though. I'm not really tired at all, but I want him to go away so that I don't feel like crying so much anymore, and if I do feel like crying, I can just cry quietly into my pillow without him asking me what's wrong, because he knows what's wrong, really. 

"Good," Dad says. He pulls the blanket higher over my shoulders. "G'night, angel girl." 

"G'night, Dad," I reply quietly. 

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

"Go ta sleep."

"Okay."

And he leaves me alone in my cell to stare blankly at the bottom of the top bunk, thinking about how I'll have to wait and wait and wait to get better.