quick note: the first section of this chapter is almost solely about june's eating disorder. if that's triggering to you, don't hesitate to skip!

Dad doesn't get home until really late when the sun has already gone down. By that point, I've already gotten into my pajamas and I've been practicing reading for a good hour or so now. I'm getting a little bit better each day, I think. Mom and Dad have been helping a lot with the words I don't know. Dad found me some books called Dork Diaries that I've been liking a lot. They're funny and have good drawings in them.

Today, though, I don't think my dad's bringing back any books. I don't know where he went, but considering a whole group of people went with him, I figure it's somewhere more important than a library or school.

Quiet footsteps come walking up the stairs outside my cell, and I know it's my dad because everyone else's footsteps are much louder and clunkier, especially on the metal stairs. Dad's got hunter's feet, though. Anyway, if I listen really carefully, I can hear him walk past my cell and into his and Momma's, which is the next one over. Ever since Mom joined us in the prison, he got over that not sleeping in no cage thing. He's been sleeping in his and Momma's cell every night.

Eavesdropping is a bad thing that I know I'm not supposed to do, but I decide I gotta just this once. My dad almost always says hi to me first when he comes back from a run, especially because he knows I worry as much as I do. But today, he passed right by my cell. I think it might be because he's feeling sad or angry or something like that. The type of emotions he tries to hide from me these days. When he's feeling those, he goes straight to his cell, either to be alone or to talk with Momma about it. She's usually pretty good at getting him into a better mood, but she's good at doing that with everyone. It's like her superpower.

Making sure to be as quiet as my dad's footsteps are, I slide off of my bed and tiptoe over to the door of my cell—it's really just a bedsheet, though. If I listen carefully, I can hear my momma's voice.

"How'd it go?" Momma asks Dad.

I can hear Daddy putting some stuff down, probably from his pockets and stuff. "Lost Zach. Beth's boyfriend," he grumbles.

That makes my heart feel heavier. It doesn't matter to me how many people have died in my time here. It always hurts just the same. Whether I knew them well or not, it puts a lump in my throat every single time, without fail. Just because I can't help but think about all the people who did know them well and how sad they must be feeling. Beth was dating him. She's probably feeling just awful right now. I wonder if Dad has even told her yet.

Mom is apparently thinking the same thing as me because she says, "Oh, that's awful. How's Beth? She must be devastated." If I close my eyes, I can imagine the sympathetic frown on her face.

"Acted like she didn't care. Said she doesn't cry anymore," Dad says with a scoff. Beth? Beth, out of all people, acted like she didn't even care that her boyfriend was dead? That doesn't make no sense at all. By the tone of my dad's voice, I can tell he's questioning that, too. Except he's more annoyed and angry sounding about it. I think it's a cover-up of sadness, though. He's angry because he's sad that Beth won't even cry about her dead boyfriend. He's angry because he's sad that Beth thinks she can't afford to truly care about and mourn people anymore. And Daddy covers up those thoughts and feelings even more by changing the subject completely, fully, and to a topic I am not so fond of because it means he's worrying about me, which I hate. "Whatever. Got my own kid to worry about," he says. "How's June?"

"In her cell readin'. She was writing for hours earlier, though," Momma says.

And it's true. I wrote for way too long earlier. So long that my hand got all crampy. I just wanted to get my thoughts about Carl out of my brain so I could stop feeling angry about them.

"Writin' about what?" Dad asks.

"Don't know. She didn't tell me."

Dad grumbles something under his breath that I can't make out. Then I hear him sigh and the bed creak a little bit. He probably finally sat down. I bet it's exhausting going out on runs all day long. I feel bad for him, sometimes. "I don't see the problem in goin' in there and just reading that thing," is the next thing he says. I change my mind. I don't feel bad for him anymore. He deserves to be exhausted.

"Daryl," Momma scolds, shaking her head. "She's allowed to have secrets. Especially at her age and-"

"Oh, don't give me that shit. How're we s'posed to know how to help her through life if she ain't even telling us half the stuff going on with her?" Dad asks. And Momma doesn't even have an answer, unfortunately for me. All she does is hum out that I don't know sort of hum. "She used to tell me all sorts a' stuff before you went ahead and told her to start writing in that journal."

I can practically see my mom rolling her eyes through the wall. "It's a healthy coping mechanism."

"I say we read it."

"You read it and I'll feed you to the walkers."

My mom's good like that. She understands things my dad could never understand, like writing your secret thoughts in your journal. I think it's because she's a girl. Girls are a lot smarter about that sort of stuff than boys ever are. Actually, I think they're a lot smarter about most things. Especially girls like my momma, who are tough and resilient, and strong and good.

"Fine," Dad huffs out. "She eat dinner?"

That's my least favorite thing he worries about. I'd rather him read my journal than ask about what I've eaten all day.

"She wasn't hungry after lunch," Momma says because that's what I told her earlier.

They both go extremely quiet in a way that makes my stomach churn with anxiety. And maybe even a full ten seconds later, Dad finally says something. "And you saw her eat lunch?" he asks. His voice is quiet but tense, and I know what it means. I've heard it a thousand times. He's trying his hardest not to get really, really angry.

"Yeah. She ate it all," Mom answers carefully. It's true, too. I ate my entire lunch. Mom was real happy.

Dad, on the other hand, doesn't seem to lighten up upon hearing that. "And breakfast?"

"She wouldn't eat it."

"What d'you mean she wouldn't eat it?" Dad scoffs out. I take a deep, deep breath and try not to let myself cry. They're gonna start fighting because of me. That's the whole, entire reason I don't want them to worry about me. Because all it does is lead to them arguing like this. Dad mocks the words once more, all scoff-like again. "She wouldn't eat it. That's the whole goddamn point of you sittin' there with her, makin' her eat it!"

"It was venison, Daryl. She would've sat there all day eating that, crying her way through it. You know she would've," Mom argues. I can hear Dad get off the bed and then I hear Momma do it, too. That's when adults start really arguing. When they're standing up to do it. "She ate her entire lunch. It's fine."

"It's not fine! She's gotta be eatin' three meals a day, just like everybody else!" Dad nearly shouts. Three meals a day is what I have to do when Dad doesn't go on runs. Mom's always been more lenient. "She's gotta have 'healthy eating patterns' or whatever the fuck it was Hershel said. That ain't ever gonna happen if you keep lettin' her do this!"

Momma is really good at being a quiet angry sort of person. She doesn't even yell when she's arguing. "I don't give a shit what he says. He was a veterinarian for God's sake; not a psychologist. I know my daughter and I know that forcin' her to sit at that table, eating food she hates and makin' her hate me isn't gonna help one bit. Besides, she ate her lunch without a single complaint today. That's progress, Daryl."

"That progress was made doin' exactly what Hershel said, not from lettin' her cry and complain her way out a' meals," Dad counters. Mom lets out an exhausted sigh, and I bet she's rubbing her head right about now. I can hear my dad's feet moving, not with his hunter footsteps, but with his mad ones where he walks back and forth, trying to calm himself down when he's really only working himself up. "God, you always do this, Birdie!"

Scoffing, Mom asks, "Do what exactly?"

"Lettin' her run around doing whatever the hell she wants 'cause you think it's gonna make her like you more."

"Well, can you blame me? I missed more than half her life, Daryl. I'm only trying to make up for it."

"You're not gonna be able to make it up to her when she's-!"

"Lower your damn voice!" Momma shouts at him. I hear her walk across the room, probably towards Dad. Then, her voice gets whispery, but more angry than ever before. "And don't ever fucking say something like that to me again."

When she's dead. That's what Dad was gonna say. I'm almost positive about it. He's got this idea in his head that I'm either gonna starve myself to death or get so weak that I'm not gonna be able to run from danger when—not if, he always reminds me—it ever comes. Thinking about it makes me scared. I don't know if I'll ever let myself get that bad, but I don't want to. Sometimes, though, on my very worst and lowest days, I wish it would happen. But that's not true. My brain just lies to me sometimes.

When I'm not sitting with a plate of food in front of me, I'm always thinking that I really want to get better. I tell myself that I'm gonna work for it, no matter how hard it gets, and I'm gonna get better. But then, the next mealtime will come around and I'll be sitting there, staring at that food I really don't want to eat, and I suddenly start thinking that I don't care about getting better. That it doesn't matter, or that it's okay to skip a meal just this once. That's my brain lying, though. Problem is, it's super hard to know whether it's telling me the truth in the moment.

Suddenly, I hear the curtain to Mom and Dad's cell woosh, meaning one of them just walked out. I run back over to my bed and scramble on top, pretending I was there the whole time. Just as I pick my book back up, my dad knocks on the wall. That's not good. I was hoping it would be my momma.

"Can I come in, Junebug?" he asks.

"Yes," I say, although I secretly wish he wouldn't.

He tucks the sheet to the side and leans against the doorway, and he's got this fake empathetic look on his face. Maybe it's real empathetic. It just doesn't feel that way because I know he was yelling and all angry just a few minutes ago. Anyway, he sighs and says, "Why don't we go downstairs and get somethin' to eat, and then you can go to bed. Come on."

"Dad..." I murmur, trying not to get all whiny.

"Your mom told me you didn't eat dinner. You gotta, baby," he says. He does that thing people do when they want you to follow them but they're not gonna say it again. He waves toward himself and I drag myself over to him, even though my legs are working against me. "At least a little somethin', alright?"

"Alright."

♡

In the morning, I wake to gunshots.

They sound like fireworks on the Fourth of July. The ones that go all night long, far, far away. Usually, on the Fourth of July, we would spend it with Grandpa Will, Uncle Merle, and whatever friends they decided to invite. We'd grill food and I would make s'mores for everyone over the firepit. I would sit in the driveway and watch them all set fireworks off in the middle of the road—the type that are big, beautiful, and dangerous, and that guys like Merle's friends love. One year, though, Merle and Grandpa got super drunk and started fighting before the sun even went down, and a bunch of the people there left early, and Merle and Grandpa just kept fighting.

I thought we weren't gonna do fireworks that year and I'd have to wait for next year to see any. But Daddy and me got in the truck, and we drove all the way out to the highway. Dad went off into one of the exits and pulled over next to the grass. The exit was pretty high up, too, so when Dad let me stand up in the back of the truck, I felt like I could see the whole world. When the sun fully went down, around 9 PM, the fireworkshows from all over the state of Georgia began. I could see every single one of them, like little sparks flying up all around me. Firework shows from Atlanta, Druid Hills, Gresham Park, and Marietta. All the cities all around. They all had their own little worlds, with their own green parks where their own families were sitting in the grass, probably on top of some blankets, looking up at the explosions in the sky.

Me, though—I was sitting with my dad in the back of the truck, and we were listening to the noises the fireworks made. The noises were quiet but powerful, and they got to us just a little bit after we saw the explosion. It felt like my eyes were in the future and my ears were in the past. But the sound was nice. Much nicer than when the explosions were going off only twenty or so feet in front of me. They were soft and distant, but I could still feel them in my bones.

Those are the types of fireworks the gunshots sound like. The ones me and Daddy watched from the highway. Soft and distant, quiet but powerful. I can feel them in my bones. This time, though, it isn't a good feeling. This time it means that people are dying.

The gunshots are quiet enough for me to know that they're not coming from inside the cellblock I'm staying in, so I rush out of my cell and down the metal stairsteps. Judith is crying and Beth's trying real hard to get her to calm down, but she won't, and I would try to help, but instead, I rush right past her, toward the door.

I can hear Lizzie and Mika screaming at the top of their lungs outside. "Help! Help! Please, come quick!" they're crying out.

Before I can make it to the door, Dad grabs me with just one arm, pulling me off of my feet and putting me back down facing the other way. "Go help Beth," he tells me very sternly, squeezing my shoulder tight.

"But Lizzie and Mika are my-"

"Listen to your dad, JJ. Now," Mom interrupts with her warning voice.

Although reluctantly, I listen to them, joining Beth over by the bench and watching as my mom and dad, along with Sasha and Tyreese, head outside toward the chaos. Dad grabs his crossbow and locks the door behind him, leaving Hershel on guard with a machete.

Judith won't stop crying, and crying, and crying. Beth keeps shushing her, brushing her fingers through the little hair Judith has, and trying to get her to calm down but it's just not working. "It's okay. It's okay, sweetheart," Beth is whispering into Judith's ear.

I don't think Lizzie and Mika are screaming out loud anymore, but I can still hear their screaming playing over and over in my head. They're probably crying. They're probably really, really scared. I should be there to help them feel better. I don't understand how to help Lizzie, though, whether that be to tell her that the grown-ups are gonna get rid of all the walkers or not. Sometimes, Lizzie acts like she doesn't want the walkers to die. It's hard to know what she will and won't be able to understand about them. Maybe it's better I'm not there. Maybe Mika will be able to comfort her. But Mika deserves comfort, too. Just because she understands a bit better than Lizzie doesn't mean she doesn't need the support, too.

It's really hard not the think of the very worst things when I don't know what's going on. In my head, I keep imagining Lizzie, Mika, or any of the other kids in the prison getting bit. They'd either die or they would lose a limb, like Hershel, and that won't leave them with a good chance of surviving after that anyway. Thinking about it makes my whole body feel so achy that I have to sit down and focus on my breathing.

"Shhh." Judith is still crying and Beth is still shushing her. "Shh, it's okay. Everything's okay. Everything's-"

"Beth?" I say, interrupting her just a little bit.

She looks over at me with her eyebrows pinched together and her eyes looking a whole lot older than she really is. "Hm?" she hums.

"Do you think everyone's okay?" I ask her.

"Probably not," is the answer she gives. It makes me feel so sick I have to close my eyes. Beth adds one more thing, though, and it doesn't help me one bit. It just makes my bones feel like they weigh a million pounds. "But that's just how it goes, now," Beth tells me.