CALAMITY.

chapter ten, the girl and the machete.
[ season two, episode one ]

THE GROUP SITS SUSPENDED IN THE SPACE BETWEEN WHAT WAS AND WHAY WILL BE. They're no longer within the choking grasp of Atlanta, but not yet embraced by whatever uncertain salvation may lie ahead. They've traveled nearly a hundred miles from the metropolitan tomb, and now find themselves surrounded by the undulating tapestry of Georgia farmland, emerald fields stretching toward the horizon, dotted with weathered barns and silent homesteads that stand as monuments to a vanished way of life.

The convoy has ground to a halt amidst a serpentine river of abandoned vehicles that winds across the sun-baked asphalt of the highway. Metal carcasses bake under the merciless sun, their colors dulled by a fine layer of Georgia clay dust.

Aiden steps out of the RV, the door creaking in protest as she pushes it open. The heat hits her immediately, a solid wall of humidity that makes the air feel thick enough to chew. Sweat begins to bead along her hairline within seconds.

She leans against the sun-warmed metal exterior of the vehicle, feeling it hot against her shoulder blades through the thin fabric of her tank top. Her eyes squint against the harsh sunlight as she surveys the automotive graveyard surrounding them.

"I said it. Didn't I say it? A thousand times. Dead in the water," Dale announces with the weary resignation of a prophet whose dire predictions have come true once again.

"Problem, Dale?" Rick asks, approaching with his family and the Peletiers in tow. His sheriff's stance remains intact despite the dissolution of the world that gave it meaning, shoulders squared, thumbs hooked in his belt loops, head slightly cocked. Lori hovers at his side, her rail-thin frame casting barely a shadow on the pavement. Carl and Sophia trail behind their mothers like ducklings, wide-eyed and quiet, while Carol's nervous fingers never stop moving, twisting the hem of her faded shirt.

"Just a small matter of being stuck in the middle of nowhere with no hope of—" Dale stops mid-sentence, his attention diverted. Aiden follows Dale's gaze to where Daryl is already rummaging through the trunk of an abandoned sedan, his movements precise and purposeful.

"Okay, that was dumb," Dale admits, shaking his head with a rueful chuckle.

"If you can't find a radiator hose here. . ." Aiden says, gesturing expansively at the vehicular maze surrounding them. The words tumble from her lips before she can censor them, "then we might as well just fuck ourselves."

"Jesus," Shane mutters from where he stands by his Jeep, his dark eyes rolling skyward.

Lori just shakes her head, her lips pressed into a thin line of disapproval. She places protective hands over Carl's ears, too late, of course, her slender fingers pale against her son's dark hair. Carol instinctively mirrors the gesture with Sophia, whose blonde head ducks in embarrassment at the vulgar language.

Daryl huffs from where he's crouched by the sedan, and Aiden catches the ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. He doesn't look up, but she knows he's listening to every word.

"There's a whole bunch of stuff we can find," Daryl pipes up, his gravelly Southern drawl cutting through the tension. His eyes flick briefly to Aiden, a flash of blue beneath hooded lids, before returning to his task. His crossbow rests within easy reach, always within arm's length of its owner.

"I can siphon more fuel from these cars for a start. Maybe some water," T-Dog suggests, already moving to retrieve the rubber hose.

"This is a graveyard," Lori speaks up, her voice hushed yet carrying in the still air. The statement falls like a stone into a quiet pond, sending ripples of discomfort through the group. Every head turns toward her, confronted by the truth they've all been avoiding. She stands tall despite her frail appearance, one protective arm wrapped around Carl's shoulders, fingers digging slightly into the fabric of his shirt. "I don't know how I feel about this."

The words hang in the air, heavy with implication. The cars around them aren't just vehicles, they're tombs, each one potentially containing the remains of someone's loved one. The highway isn't just blocked, it's a monument to the moment when everything fell apart, when people fled and died in their desperate attempt to escape.

Shane breaks the uncomfortable silence, his voice carrying the authority he still believes is his birthright. "Come on, y'all, just look around. Gather what you can." His hand rests on his pistol holster, a habitual gesture that speaks to his perpetual readiness for violence.

Aiden doesn't need to be told twice. She pushes herself away from the RV and immediately wanders off, eager to escape the tension brewing between Rick and Shane, a tension so thick it seems to distort the air between them. She moves with purpose down the line of vehicles, her footsteps crunching on scattered glass and debris that litter the asphalt.

The interior of each car tells a silent story of panic and abandonment. She rummages through vehicle after vehicle, her hands growing grimy with dust and old fingerprints. The glove compartments yield nothing but crumpled napkins and faded insurance cards. Center consoles contain useless phones with dead batteries, chargers for devices that will never be powered again, loose change that has lost all value.

"Jesus, people," she mumbles to herself, the words barely audible over the sounds of distant birds and the metallic creaks of sun-heated vehicles. "Are y'all never prepared for bad shit?"

The sun beats down mercilessly as she continues her search, moving deeper into the automotive maze. Her boots scuff against the pavement, leaving marks in the fine dust. She finds only meager offerings, more napkins, sticks of gum turned to stone in the heat, the occasional half-empty water bottle with liquid so warm it's practically tea.

Her frustration mounts with each useless discovery until finally, she approaches a red pickup truck with its tailgate down, an invitation. She hoists herself into the bed with a grunt, her palms burning briefly against the sun-heated metal. Her eyes widen when she sees what lies on the plastic bed liner, glinting in the sunlight like a gift from whatever gods might still be watching.

"Oh, hell yeah!" The words escape in a breathless whisper of reverence.

She reaches down, fingers wrapping around the army green handle. The weight of it feels right, balanced and purposeful in her palm. The corners of her lips curl upward in a wicked grin as she brings the machete closer to her face for inspection.

The blade is immaculate, so clean that she can see her own reflection in the polished metal. Her face looks back at her, distorted but recognizable, eyes alive with a predatory gleam, skin bronzed and dirt-streaked from days on the road.

Then—

"Aiden!"

The urgency in the voice snaps her attention away from her newfound treasure. Her eyes dart up to find Rick standing by a truck several vehicles away, his face transformed by alarm. His wide eyes convey what his voice cannot risk shouting, danger, immediate and overwhelming. He frantically motions for her to get off the truck and beneath it, his gestures sharp with desperation.

Aiden's eyes flash from Rick to what lies beyond him, and her blood turns to ice water in her veins.

Walkers. Dozens and dozens of walkers. Maybe even hundreds. A shuffling, groaning mass of decaying humanity emerging from the tree line and spreading across the highway like a flood of rotting flesh. Some are fresh, their injuries still vivid and wet; others are ancient by the standards of this new world, their skin hanging in gray tatters from yellowed bones. All of them move with the same terrible purpose, drawn by some unseen force or forgotten memory of the highway as a place of human gathering.

"Oh, holy fucking shit!" She whisper-shouts, adrenaline surging through her system like liquid lightning.

She scrambles off the bed of the truck, her boot-covered feet hitting the ground with such force that pain shoots through her ankles and up her shins. She drops to her knees, the asphalt biting through the fabric of her jeans, and rolls beneath the truck with practiced urgency. The undercarriage looms inches from her face, a jumble of pipes, wires, and rust. The smell of oil and hot metal fills her nostrils as she presses herself against the ground.

Her fingers clutch the handle of the machete so tightly that her knuckles turn white, the tendons in her wrist standing out like cords. With her other hand, she presses against her mouth to stifle the sound of her breathing, which seems thunderously loud in her own ears. Her chest rises and falls rapidly, heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped animal.

The first walker stumbles past, a woman in what was once a floral dress, now a tapestry of blood and filth. One arm ends at the elbow, the wound blackened and crawling with flies. Her bare feet drag across the pavement with a sickening scrape.

Then the next appears, a businessman still wearing the tattered remains of a suit, his jaw hanging grotesquely to one side, connected by only a few strands of desiccated tissue. His clouded eyes stare at nothing as he shuffles forward.

Then they come in earnest, a hundred more, a procession of horror shuffling past on both sides of the truck. From her position, Aiden can see only their legs, some clad in jeans or slacks, others in skirts or shorts, many partially exposed by tears that reveal gray flesh and protruding bone. Shoes scuff against asphalt, bare feet slap wetly.

The stench is overwhelming, a miasma of rot and putrefaction that seems to have physical weight, pressing down on her like a sodden blanket. Flies buzz around the passing parade, darting between legs to feast on open wounds.

Minutes stretch into what feels like hours. Sweat pools beneath her body, soaking through her clothes and mingling with the grime of the road. Her muscles begin to cramp from holding still, but she dares not move. The slightest sound could bring the horde down upon her, upon all of them.

Finally, the last walker shuffles past, an elderly man with one leg shorter than the other, causing a distinctive lilt to his gait. When she can no longer hear the shuffling of their feet, the collective groan of their hunger fading into the distance, she begins to push herself out from beneath the truck, muscles screaming in protest as she moves.

Then a scream pierces the air.

It's a girlish scream, too high-pitched to be Carl's or any of the women in their group. The sound is pure terror, the sound of innocence confronting horror for the first time without the buffer of adult protection.

Sophia.

Aiden's eyes widen with recognition and dread. Her heart, which had just begun to slow, accelerates again to a painful rhythm. She pushes herself the rest of the way out from under the truck with renewed urgency, scraping her elbows on the rough asphalt in her haste.

She springs to her feet, machete still clutched in her white-knuckled grip, and sprints back toward the RV. Her boots pound against the pavement, each impact jarring her bones as she weaves between vehicles. Her lungs burn with exertion in the humid air.

She reaches the gathering point just in time to see Rick's back disappearing into the woods beyond the highway guardrail. He moves with the fluid economy of a trained officer, pistol drawn but held low as he pursues Sophia and the walkers that chase her. The trees swallow him within seconds, the dense undergrowth closing behind him like a green curtain.

The remaining group members stand frozen in tableau, faces etched with horror and helplessness. Carol sobs openly, her slender frame shaking with each heaving breath, held upright only by Lori's supporting arm. Daryl stands at the edge of the woods, crossbow raised, eyes scanning the treeline with predatory focus. Shane paces like a caged animal, cursing under his breath, while Dale watches from atop the RV, his binoculars trained on the spot where Rick vanished.

Minutes pass with excruciating slowness. The birds have gone silent, as if holding their breath along with the humans below. The only sounds are Carol's diminishing sobs and the distant rustle of leaves in the breeze.

And then, movement at the treeline.

Rick Grimes emerges from the woods alone. His shirt clings to him, soaked through with sweat. His face is a mask of grim determination overlaid with something worse, failure. Blood and dirt streak his forearms, his pistol now holstered at his hip. He crosses the distance to the highway with measured steps, each one heavier than the last, carrying the weight of what he must now communicate.

And he returns without Sophia Peletier.

The absence speaks louder than any words could. It hangs in the air between Rick and the group, a void where a child should be. Carol's knees buckle as understanding dawns, her wail of maternal anguish cutting through the still afternoon air like a knife. It is the sound of a heart breaking in real time, of a mother facing her worst nightmare made flesh.

The sun continues its arc across the sky, indifferent to the human tragedy playing out beneath it. The abandoned cars sit silent, witnesses to yet another loss in a world defined by them. And somewhere in the woods, a little girl runs alone, pursued by monsters both literal and figurative, fear, abandonment, the cruelty of a world that no longer protects its children.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

─────────

"Sure this is the spot?" Daryl questions Rick, his weathered body crouched low beside the shallow creek. Sweat beads across his forehead, trickling down his temples as the Georgian summer heat bears down relentlessly. His crossbow hangs heavy against his back, the leather strap cutting into his shoulder. The murky water trickles past, barely audible over the constant drone of cicadas hiding in the dense foliage surrounding them.

Aiden stands beside Glenn, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, the fabric of her once-white tank top now gray with sweat and grime. Her dark hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, wisps escaping to stick to the nape of her neck. Her eyes narrow against the harsh sunlight filtering through the canopy as she watches Daryl's practiced movements. Her jaw clenches and unclenches rhythmically, betraying her anxiety despite her composed exterior. The handle of her knife presses reassuringly against her hip.

"I left her right here," Rick explains, his voice strained with exhaustion and worry. His sheriff's uniform clings to his body, dark patches of sweat spreading beneath his arms and down his back. Dirt smudges his face, mingling with droplets of perspiration. He gestures emphatically across the creek. "I drew the walkers way off in that direction, up the creek. Told her to stay put until I got back."

"Without a paddle, seems where we've landed," Daryl quips. His fingers trace indentations in the soft mud, eyes scanning every detail of the disturbed earth beneath them. The muscles in his forearms flex as he balances his weight on the balls of his feet.

Aiden rolls her eyes dramatically, the gesture accentuated by the dark circles beneath them. "Jesus Christ," she mutters under her breath, just loud enough for Glenn to hear. A mosquito lands on her arm, and she slaps it away with unnecessary force.

"She was gone by the time I got back here," Rick continues, desperation edging into his voice as he runs a hand through his sweat-soaked curls. "I figured she just took off and ran back to the group. I told her to go that way and keep the sun on her left shoulder." He points toward a gap in the trees where sunlight pours through like liquid gold, illuminating dancing particles of dust and pollen in the humid air.

"Hey, short round, why don't you step off to one side? You're muckin' up the trail." Daryl glances up at Glenn with sharp, critical eyes. The tracker's face is streaked with dirt and glistening with sweat, his expression a mixture of concentration and irritation.

Glenn quickly takes a step back, his worn sneakers sliding slightly on the uneven ground. He bumps into Aiden in the process, the unexpected contact causing her to instinctively tense. She remains silent as she grabs his arm to stabilize him, her fingers digging into the fabric of his sleeve.

"Assumin' she knows her right from left," Shane interjects from a few feet away, his voice dripping with skepticism.

"Don't be an asshole, Shane," Aiden snaps, releasing Glenn's arm and turning to face her brother. "There's no need in that right now."

Rick doesn't bother to look at the man, keeping his eyes fixed on Daryl's movements along the muddy creek bank. "Shane, she understood me fine," he says, his tone flat but final. Sweat drips from the tip of his nose as he crouches lower, studying the ground.

"Kid's tired and scared, man," Shane reasons, taking a step closer to Rick. His boots crush the undergrowth beneath them, releasing the earthy scent of disturbed soil. "She had her a close call with two walkers. Got to wonder how much of what you said stuck."

"Got clear prints right here," Daryl announces, motioning to a set of small footprints barely visible in the soft earth. He stands in a fluid motion, wiping his mud-caked hands on his already filthy pants. "She did like you said, headed back to the highway." His eyes scan the forest ahead, reading the landscape like a book. "Let's spread out, make our way back."

They follow Daryl through the woods, the undergrowth scratching at their legs and thorny branches catching on their clothing. The air grows thicker with humidity as they push deeper into the forest, mosquitoes buzzing incessantly around their heads. Every snapping twig beneath their feet sounds like a gunshot in the otherwise quiet woods.

Daryl suddenly stops and crouches down again, his experienced fingers tracing another set of footprints. The others gather around him, their shadows stretching across the forest floor as the sun shifts position overhead. "She was doin' just fine till right here," he explains, pointing to where the trail changes direction. "All she had to do was keep goin' that way." He gestures forward before pointing to their right. "She veered off that way."

"Why would she do that?" Glenn asks, his brows furrowing in confusion as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. His backpack hangs heavily on his shoulders, the contents rattling softly with each movement.

"Maybe she saw somethin' that spooked her, made her run off," Shane suggests with a shrug. He wipes sweat from his upper lip with the back of his hand, leaving a smear of dirt across his face.

"A walker?" Glenn suggests, his voice rising slightly with concern. His eyes dart nervously between the trees, scanning for any signs of movement.

"I don't see any other footprints. Just hers," Daryl tells him, standing up again. He squints into the distance, the harsh sunlight casting stark shadows across his face, emphasizing every line and scar.

"So what do we do? All of us press on?" Shane asks, resting his hand on his gun holster. A bead of sweat rolls down his temple, catching in the stubble along his jaw.

"No, better if you, Aiden, and Glenn get back up to the highway," Rick speaks up, authority returning to his voice. He adjusts his sheriff's hat, providing momentary shade for his eyes. "People are gonna start panicking. Let 'em know we're on her trail doing everything we can. But most of all, keep everybody calm."

"I'll keep 'em busy scavengin' cars. Think up a few other chores. I'll keep 'em occupied," Shane says to his partner, nodding in agreement. The tension between them momentarily subsides as they fall back into their familiar roles of law enforcement. "Come on," he gestures to Glenn and Aiden.

"Be careful," Aiden says to Rick and Daryl before they make their leave. Her voice is softer now, genuine concern breaking through her usual hardened exterior. Daryl's Georgian blues move to meet hers. She looks down at him, holding his gaze with unexpected intensity. "I mean it. Don't do anything stupid."

She makes her leave, her footsteps fading among the cacophony of forest sounds, leaving Rick and Daryl alone in their desperate search.

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By the time the sun is setting, Rick and Daryl return. Alone. The highway is bathed in a haunting orange glow, long shadows stretching across the abandoned vehicles like grasping fingers. The air has cooled slightly, but the humidity remains, clinging to skin like an unwelcome embrace.

Aiden's dark eyes scan both men from head-to-toe, looking for anything amiss. Her gaze is methodical, almost clinical as she assesses them for injuries. Her face remains impassive, but her right hand clenches and unclenches at her side, betraying her anxiety. She doesn't say a word as she catches sight of the specks of blood on Rick's pants, dark crimson stains splattered across the khaki fabric, already drying to a rusty brown.

The group has gathered at the guardrail, their faces painted gold and shadow by the setting sun. Hope visibly drains from their expressions as they register the absence of a third person. The silence is deafening, broken only by the distant call of birds settling for the night and the occasional metallic creak of cooling car engines.

"You didn't find her?" Carol asks, her voice cracking with desperation. Her eyes are bloodshot from crying, the skin around them puffy and inflamed. Her thin fingers grip the metal guardrail so tightly her knuckles shine white in the fading light.

Rick shakes his head, the motion slow and heavy with failure. Dust from the day's search clings to his sweat-dampened hair. "Her trail went cold. We'll pick it up again at first light." His voice carries the weight of his promise, even as exhaustion threatens to bring him to his knees.

"You can't leave my daughter out there on her own to spend the night alone in the woods," Carol tells him, each word punched out between shallow breaths. She steps forward, her body trembling with fear and grief. The dying sunlight catches the tears tracking down her dirt-smudged cheeks.

"Out in the dark's no good," Daryl says, shaking his head. His crossbow hangs limply at his side, his shoulders slumped with fatigue. Dried sweat and grime form patterns on his exposed arms. "We'd just be trippin' over ourselves. More people get lost."

"But she's twelve. She can't be out there on her own. You didn't find anything?" Carol asks again, silently begging, her fingers now clutching at the front of her own shirt as if trying to hold herself together. The desperation in her voice cuts through the evening air like a knife.

"I know this is hard," Rick says, stepping closer to Carol. The distance between them seems both physical and insurmountable. "But I'm asking you not to panic. We know she was out there." His face is a mask of determined composure, though the tremor in his hands betrays his true state.

"And we tracked her for a while," Daryl steps up, as if it offers any comfort. Twigs and leaves still cling to his clothes from crawling through underbrush. A scratch across his forearm seeps blood that he hasn't bothered to wipe away.

"We have to make this an organized effort," Rick informs the group, his voice carrying across the gathered survivors. The highway stretches endlessly behind him, a graveyard of abandoned vehicles bathed in the day's dying light. "Daryl knows the woods better than anybody. I've asked him to oversee this."

"Is that blood?" Carol asks suddenly, her voice rising an octave as she points a shaking finger at Rick's pants. The group collectively holds its breath.

Aiden closes her eyes, cursing to herself. Her nails dig crescents into her palms as she braces for what's coming next. The tension in the air becomes almost unbearable, thick enough to choke on.

"We took down a walker," Rick answers, his tone deliberately measured. His hand unconsciously moves to cover the stains, as if hiding them might somehow erase the reality they represent.

"Walker? Oh, my God." Carol breathes out, her chest starting to rise and fall quicker with panicked breaths. Her face pales visibly, even in the golden-red light of sunset. She reaches out blindly, searching for support.

"There was no sign it was ever anywhere near Sophia," Rick attempts to reassure her, stepping forward with his hands raised in a placating gesture. The blood on his pants seems to glow accusingly in the setting sun.

"How can you know that?" Andrea interrogates, stepping forward. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a tight ponytail, her expression hard with suspicion. Her hand rests on her hip, inches from where her gun would be if Dale hadn't taken it.

"We cut the son of a bitch open, made sure," Daryl says bluntly. His matter-of-fact tone contrasts sharply with the horror of his words. He shifts his weight, dried mud cracking and falling from his boots.

Aiden's brows shoot upwards, her composure momentarily broken by surprise. They cut the walker open? Her eyes dart between Rick and Daryl, trying to reconcile this new information with what she knows of them. The image is visceral and disturbing, yet somehow perfectly fitting for this new world they inhabit.

Carol slumps against the guard rail, her legs seemingly unable to support her any longer. The metal creaks under her weight as she slides down to a sitting position. The last rays of sunlight catch in her short gray hair, creating a halo effect that seems cruelly ironic given the moment.

"How could you just leave her out there to begin with? How could you just leave her?" Carol asks, her voice harsh and accusing. The words hang in the air like physical things, impossible to take back or ignore.

"Wow," Aiden whispers to herself, the single syllable laden with disbelief. She crosses her arms tighter across her chest, as if physically holding herself back from intervening.

"Those two walkers were on us," Rick tries to reason, crouching down to Carol's level. Fatigue is etched into every line of his face. "I had to draw them off. It was her best chance." His eyes plead for understanding, for forgiveness that he's not sure he deserves.

"Sounds like he didn't have a choice, Carol," Shane says, immediately coming to Rick's defense. He stands slightly apart from the group, his stance wide and authoritative. His shadow stretches long across the asphalt, almost touching Carol's huddled form.

"How was she supposed to find her way back on her own?" Carol argues, her voice rising with each word. Anger begins to replace the shock in her expression. "She's just a child. She's just a child." The repetition hangs in the air, an accusation none of them can answer.

Rick looks up at her from where he's now crouched on the asphalt, his eyes reflecting the dying light. "It was my only option. The only choice I could make." His voice is steady, but something in it suggests he's repeating these words as much for himself as for Carol.

"I'm sure nobody doubts that," Aiden speaks up for the first time, her voice cutting through the tension. The group's eyes turn to her, surprise evident on some faces. "You're doin' all you can, Rick." Despite her reassuring words, her expression remains guarded, unreadable in the growing shadows.

"My little girl got left in the woods," Carol sobs, the fight draining from her as quickly as it came. Her shoulders shake with each breath, grief overwhelming her once more. The sound of her crying seems to fill the entire highway, echoing off abandoned cars and into the darkening sky.

Rick nods, standing to his feet, his movements stiff with exhaustion. Aiden watches his retreating figure with guilty eyes, tracking him until he disappears between two abandoned trucks. Her eyes then shift to where Lori and Andrea are comforting the crestfallen mother, their whispered consolations carried away by the evening breeze.

Aiden simply turns around and walks back into the RV, the door closing behind her with a hollow metallic sound that seems to punctuate the day's failure. Inside, she sits on the edge of the small bed, not bothering to turn on any lights as darkness claims the interior. Her shoulders slump as she finally allows herself to feel the weight of their situation. Despite the exhaustion pulling at every muscle, she knows she'll get no sleep tonight. Outside, the forest grows dark, swallowing their hopes in its shadows.

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word count: 4,841

THE FIRST REWRITTEN CHAPTER OF ACT TWO!!! WOOOOO!!! let's get this party startedddddd (it will probably be month before the next rewritten chapter). but what better early christmas present than this??

anyway, rereaders KNOW about the green handled machete baby just found and let me tell y'all, the lore behind it goes crazier then the red handled machete. and those who know my writing knows that i am a SUCKER for a character finding their weapon and it staying with them through the whole story. because even in the wastelands series, odessa finds her matte black knife in this exact episode while also looking through traffic jam.

but y'all. aiden telling rick and daryl to be careful but only looking daryl straight in the eye?? actually shut the fuck up. they mean the entire world to me. ugh, i miss them. i really really really need to actually finish the last book in this series but, who knows when they will happen!!!

anyway, aiden is always clocking shane. she may love her brother but like any sister she is not afraid to call him on his bullshit. and i love her for that. because i myself have a brother (younger) and i am constantly calling him out. which he does me too but still. siblings are each other's #1 supporters and #1 haters. those with siblings will understand that.

BUT. i am so so excited to finally be rewriting season two. this is the season where we learn about aiden's background (which is being changed slightly like i've stated before), the slow burn finally stops slow burning here, and we meet the greene's!!!