My eyes are only closed for a few seconds, but to me, it feels like they've been closed for a whole lifetime. It feels like I've closed my eyes and relived my entire life all over again. But my eyes fly open without me telling them to when I'm suddenly being tackled and shoved into the dirt by someone. And with my eyes open, I can see that it's Michonne. She's got a very panicked look on her face and I'm sure I do, too, but I'm not positive that my face is doing anything at all. I can't control my face right now. I can't control anything. I can only feel my heart beating too fast, the drips of blood on my cheeks, and the pressure of Michonne pushing me.

"Get out of the way!" Michonne is shouting at me, I'm pretty sure. It's hard to make out all of her words with all the noise both in real life and in my head. Don't think my head's ever been louder, really. "Come on, June," Michonne says breathlessly as she pulls me behind a car.

She tugs at the binding around my wrists, making the knot get looser and loser until I can slip my hands free. There's man lying on the ground next to us. I can't tell if he's dead or unconscious, but it doesn't seem to matter to Michonne. She just smashes her boot right into his face.

"Take his gun. Take his gun, June," Michonne says. She kicks the toe of her boot against a holster on the man's waist, and I pull the gun out of it just as she said. And when I do, she juts her chin in the direction of the trees. "Go! Run and hide, and when it's all over, I'll find you. And if I don't, you know your dad will. Keep the safety off. Now go!"

I don't waste any time arguing with her, even though she knows I don't like using nor am I good at using guns, and even though I don't really want to leave her there alone with her wrists still tied up and everything. Because I know Michonne well enough to know that she can take care of herself very well, and if anything, she'll probably end up saving more people than just me. I have to listen to her to survive, so I can see my momma and daddy again, and so I can keep breathing. Daddy always said that the only thing that mattered was that I was still breathing. So I gotta run.

I do run. I run and I run and I run. Until, out of nowhere, someone shoves me to the ground again. This time, though, I know it's not Michonne because it is much more violent, angry, and scary, and when I land, my hand lands wrong underneath me. I can hear it crunch as I fall on top of it, and I can't help but cry out in pain. I don't get the chance to wallow in that pain for long, though, because someone's after me. I twist onto my back and see a man standing tall over me. He's got a gun pointed right at me.

"Think you're gettin' away that easy, girl?" the man growls out.

Before he can even think about pulling the trigger on his gun, I kick the barrel away from me and point my own gun. Using the strength in my wrist hurts so bad I think I might pass out, but I pull the trigger. I have to. I have to pull the trigger.

The kickback hurts more than ever before, and I accidentally drop the gun in the process of shooting it. The bullet lands right in the man's shoulder. He drops his own gun and screams out in pain, shuffling backward.

I'm not fully stupid, even though I sometimes feel like I am. I'm not fully stupid, so I grab my gun, get up, and run faster than I've ever run before. It feels like my guts are gonna fall right out of my stomach and like my head is going to explode, but I try to ignore it and I run. Every time my foot lands on the ground again, making me bounce into the next step, lightning bolts of pain shoot up my entire arm from my wrist.

My feet crunch, crunch, crunch against the forest floor and I think about my dad telling me my footsteps are too loud. I'm gonna scare away all the game, he would say. Daddy's go hunter's footsteps, all quiet and careful, and I think if I tried really hard, I could have those types of footsteps, too. But I don't have them now and I don't even care to try to have them. I just need to be as fast as I possibly can.

I keep running like that for what feels like ages, only stopping when my whole body has gone numb and I can't breathe properly anymore. I don't know how far I've gone and I don't really care to neither. I just drop back against a tree and fall to the ground, panting like a dog on a hot summer day.

My eyes feel like weights and my throat feels like it's got sandpaper in it. Worst of all, though, my vision is getting all spotty. My vision getting spotty doesn't mean nothing good. It means everything bad. It means I might pass out, just like I did on that bridge with Mom, Dad, and Merle. And it means I could get eaten by a walker and I'll be dead, and maybe I'll do something bad as a walker, like bite one of my parents.

The only times I've ever passed out, my daddy's been right there by my side to help me. If my vision ever even got a little bit spotty, or even if I just looked a little bit out of it, he would be there to help me. He'd make me sit down, which is good because I'm already doing that. He'd make me put my head between my knees, too, if it was real bad, and right now, it's real bad. So I duck my head between my knees and breathe.

If my daddy was here, he would also make me drink some water and try having something to eat. But he ain't here, and neither is any water or food. All I've got is myself, my gun, and the clothes on my back. So breathing is all I can do. I stay like that for a while, just breathing with my head between my knees, until my head stops feeling like it's gonna fall off. As soon as it feels safe to, I stand back up.

Now, I keep myself as quiet as possible. I look around in every direction, listening carefully for any sort of steps. Daddy taught me how to tell the difference between people steps and walkers' steps. People steps are steady, usually pretty rhythmic, and not so sloppy. Walkers, though, will drag their feet along and stumble to wherever they wanna go with no care for how loud they are. If I hear walker steps, I'll run, and if I hear people steps, I think I'll hide. Because it could be someone I trust.

For now, I don't hear any steps. It's just me, on my own. That's both a relief and terrifying at the same time.

On one hand, there's no one here to hurt me at all, but on the other, there's no one here to protect me if someone does come. And that's horrifying. I should have listened to Daddy, even though he was making me mad. I'm not strong enough to protect myself. It's true. He was right. And now I'm probably going to die out here, all on my own. Because I'm not strong enough.

All I can do is try. Try, try, try. If I stay alive, maybe I'll find my parents. Then maybe everything will be okay. Who knows, though? I don't. Not for sure. And that floods my body with an overwhelming feeling that I can't even describe. I push it deep, deep down inside of me and walk.

It's kind of funny. I feel kind of like a walker myself, dragging myself onward, out here on my own. But I know I'm not one of them. I can think for myself and I can control myself, and I can remember who I love, for better or for worse, so I'm not one of them. I'm alive, I'm alive, I'm alive. I keep thinking that, in my head, as I go on. Over and over to remind myself. I'm alive, I'm alive, I'm alive, I'm alive.

♡

I walked for a really, super duper long time, hoping I would maybe run into someone I know. It didn't lead me nowhere, though. I'm still just surrounded by trees. Not a person or a walker in sight. The sun has gone down now, too, and that's totally freaking me out. I don't have a flashlight or nothing, so all I have is the moon and stars. They're not nearly bright enough to help me see ten feet in front of me. Every time I hear even a little bit of a sound, I can't stop myself from shrieking, thinking it's a walker, but it always turns out to be some little squirrel or bird or something.

If Daddy were here, he would be shooting those animals with his crossbow. I'd hide behind him and look at my shoes, pretending it didn't bother me even though it did a little bit,  and then he would pick up the dead animal and he would bring it with us to wherever he decided we were staying for the night. Then, he would build a fire—a real good one—and he would let it burn to keep us warm while he skinned the animals with his knife. Then, he'd cook the meat up over the fire and watch me super closely to make sure I actually ate the food. And I'd narrow my eyes at him, telling him to leave me alone without actually saying a single word. He wouldn't, of course, but that's what dads are for, I think.

Daddy ain't here, though. It's just me and this gun I've got tucked into my waistband. It keeps weighing my pants down, so I keep having to pull them back up higher, even with the belt I've got on. I ain't got any knives or nothing, so even if I did shoot an animal, I wouldn't be able to skin it or cook it. Not that I would want to do that, anyway. Maybe if I really, really had to, I would. But I can't now, not even if I want to.

I haven't eaten nothing. I'm getting really hungry. It's making my throat burn, like I'm gonna puke all over the place, and it's also making me feel some little, mean guy is on the inside of me, yanking on my stomach to remind me to eat something. But the yanking is hurting real badly. It's making it hard for me to stand up. It helps a little bit to squeeze my stomach, but not very much. I still just feel like I'm gonna keel over.

I'm hoping that, maybe, I'll be able to get some sleep and I will feel mostly better when I wake up, but I'm not sure. Sleeping is scary, though. I can't sleep on the ground, 'cause if I do, then there will be walkers and they'll eat me up, just like Patrick did to some of the people in the prison. That can't, can't, can't happen, so I either gotta find shelter, or I gotta learn how to float. I've been walking for hours and haven't found a thing, though, and I can't learn to float. So I guess I just gotta keep looking.

More than anything else, I'm hoping I'll be able to find a house or a school. Something that might have bandages or something. Because my wrist is hurting just as bad—actually, even worse—than my stomach is.

So I keep going and going. It's very boring, but it's just what I do. Going, and going, and going, thinking about all the people I'm missing, and trying to ignore the way that everything hurts.

I walk. I walk, and then I hear another twig snap. I freeze up for just a moment, and then let out a breath. It's just another squirrel, I tell myself, using my good arm to rub the scaredness out of my face.

And just as I take one more step, something grabs my shoulder.

I know it's a walker before I can see it. All of a sudden, the chirping crickets aren't so loud. All I can hear is the snarling. I scream without meaning to as I scramble away from the thing. My whole body feels like it's vibrating, making me feel all numb, and for a moment, I'm sure that it's bit me. I'm dead. I'm so sure of it.

Doesn't matter if I'm dead, though, because as quickly as I can, I use my good hand to pull the gun Michonne gave me from my waistband. No matter how much it hurts, I use my other hand to flip the safety off—even though Michonne told me to keep it off, I switched it off before tucking it in my waistband. Before I can think properly, I am pulling that trigger. The shot is loud and it rings in my ears, making all the numbness melt away. The pain reverberates all through my bones as the kickback hits.

I don't even check if the walker is dead. I just run as fast as I can, far, far away from that monster. I still don't know if it bit me or not, but I don't care right now. I just don't want it to tear me apart.

I keep running until I see something. In the distance, past some trees, I see something big and brown. If I squint my eyes, it looks kind of like Lincoln Logs. A cabin. A place to stay.

The aching in my stomach doesn't feel so bad and my legs work a thousand times faster upon seeing the house. It only takes me thirty more seconds of running to finally reach it. I don't think to be careful walking inside. I just sprint in and slam the door behind me, knocking the little hook on the door into the loop on the wall to lock it. As soon as that door is locked, I melt.

I feel like a popsicle in the summer sun as I sink to the floor, my back up against the locked door. I huff and huff, panting like a dog after a long game of fetch, except this game ain't so fun. The pain, all over my body, is quick to come back. I'm not safe yet, though. I know I'm not, even if I feel like it, hiding inside this cabin.

"Hello?" I shout into the cabin.

There are only two rooms, and I'm in one of them. The only other place someone or something could be hiding is the bathroom. Nothing comes walking out of it, luckily. If there were a walker, the brainless thing would drag itself to the sound of my voice because I'm food. If there were a person, I could only hope that they would come out and reveal themselves. I don't know that for sure, though, so before I can truly be safe, I have to pick myself back up again.

With my gun ready in my good hand, I creep toward the bathroom. I kick the door open, hoping and praying that no one is inside. Lucky for me, no one is. It's just me, all alone in this cabin. I wish my momma and daddy were here with me. But they're not. I feel like I gotta keep reminding myself. Like my heart keeps forgetting or something.

Anyway, the first thing I think of doing in this old cabin is to wrap my wrist in something. It hurts really bad every time I move even just a little bit. It ain't looking so good, neither. So in the bathroom, I tuck my gun back into my waistband and start using my good hand to dig through cabinets. Whoever lived here had a lot of first-aid stuff, luckily. They had a lot of medicine, especially painkillers, and a lot of the type of pills the pharmacy gives you in those little, orange bottles. There's also a bunch of bandaids, gauze, Neosporin, and anti-itch cream. I find what I need, though, in the back of the cabinet.

It's a little wrap with tiny, metal clasps. It looks like it might be for someone's ankle, judging by the logo on the tag, but that doesn't matter. It's all I got. So I start wrapping it. It's super hard to do, though. I'm not good at putting bandages on even when I've got both my hands, and it's about a thousand times harder only having one of them. It takes a good five minutes or so, along with fifty different tries, but I eventually get the wrap on somewhat tight with the clasps in what I think are their proper places.

That leaves me with only one more thing to do before going to bed. Eating.

I hate it. Thinking about it makes my stomach hurt even worse, and imagining putting the food in my mouth and swallowing is even more awful. But if I'm gonna survive—and I gotta survive—I have to eat something. Dragging my feet against the hardwood floors, I go back into the main room. There's cabinets lining one of the walls, and I imagine that there are lots of different foods hidden behind those doors.

It takes me a good ten minutes to open and look through all of the cabinets. Now I'm just standing with my back up against the opposite wall, staring at the open cabinets. Lots of the food is the type of food I know I can't eat because it's expired, and the rest is all stuff that I'm not too sure about. In the skinniest cabinet, though, there is a can of soup. Plain soup with chicken broth. That can't be too bad, can it?

After grabbing a spoon and a can opener from one of the drawers, I sit down at the lonely kitchen table, and I spend the next hour forcing food down my throat. I don't do it for myself. If this was for myself, I'd just let me starve. But I'm doing it for my momma and my daddy. They always said the only thing that mattered was that I kept on breathing, after all. So that's what I've gotta do.