♪   "God Needs The Devil" - Jonah Kagen

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- Cass's POV -

People.

Shit.

My mouth snaps shut, and I hold my breath, my lungs screaming for air. My back presses as flat as I can against the tree behind me, knife still gripped tight in my hand, pulse hammering against my ribs like it's trying to break free.

"'S not funny," a gruff male voice grumbles, deep and raspy, echoing through the stillness of the night. His words sink into me like ice, and I realize just how close he is—too close. They're heading straight for the woods. For the cottage.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck—

"Sorry," a woman's voice replies, her voice cutting through the air with dry, biting sharpness. "But you can't tell me a story about your ass itching 'something awful' and expect me not to laugh."

A beam of light flashes, cutting through the trees, and I freeze, every muscle locking up. My back presses harder against the rough bark of the tree, my breaths coming in quick, shallow gasps, and my pulse pounding so loudly I wonder if they can hear it. The knife's handle digs into my palm, the cold steel grounding me as I glance frantically between the shifting shadows.

Who the hell are these people? Sophia's family, maybe? Coming to look for her?

Or... something worse?

The sudden sound of a shoe scraping the earth breaks the momentary silence—a muffled thud follows. A curse slips from the woman's mouth, and a snort of amusement escapes from the man.

"That's what you get for laughin' about my ass," he growls, his voice tinged with humor, though it does nothing to ease the tightness coiling in my chest.

"You alright, Andrea?" Another voice—this one softer, younger, with a slight tremor that sinks into my gut like lead. A third person.

Shit. There are three of them?

I hold my breath again, straining to hear. Andrea mutters something indistinct in reply—probably fine, judging by the way the twigs continue snapping underfoot. They're moving again, closer, their voices drifting between the trees like they own the night.

I need a plan. Fast.

My grip tightens on the knife as I press my body even harder against the tree. The bark is jagged and unyielding, but it feels like my only shield right now. I can't let them find Sophia—not like this. Not until I know who they are and what they want. They could be her family—they most likely are. 

But I can't risk it. Not yet. Not when the last time I let people I cared about out of my sight and it ended with them being ripped apart.

The figures emerge from the underbrush, ghostly shapes in the dim light, and I hold my breath, forcing myself to stay still.

The first man strides forward, tall and gruff, his skin streaked with dirt and his walk purposeful, almost predatory. A flashlight dangles from one hand, its beam trained on the ground, and in his other hand—a crossbow. My stomach twists at the sight of it, the dark metal gleaming faintly in the sparse moonlight.

Beside him is the woman, Andrea. She's about the same height, her wavy blonde hair pulled back into a messy bun that sways as she moves. She scans the trees with a smaller flashlight, her sharp eyes darting to the cottage. Something in her posture—rigid, alert—screams unease. Like she knows something's wrong but hasn't quite figured out what.

Trailing behind them is the youngest—probably in his early twenties, wearing a hoodie and a baseball cap pulled low over his face. His movements are jittery, his gaze constantly darting around like he's expecting something to jump out at him. No flashlight. No visible weapon. He seems harmless, but in this world, that means nothing.

"Think she's here?" the youngest asks the crossbow guy, his voice barely audible, the question lost in the rustling of leaves.

The crossbow man's flashlight sweeps dangerously close to my hiding spot, its harsh beam lighting up patches of underbrush before skimming over the cottage. His jaw tightens. "Tracks lead here," he grunts bluntly in response, the words rough.

Andrea shifts beside him, her stance restless. She crosses her arms over her striped shirt, her lips pressed into a thin line. She doesn't carry a weapon—not that I can see—but her sharp gaze rakes the cottage, her posture giving off an air of restrained suspicion. Looks like she isn't too happy about the no-weapon thing. 

Oblivious to the tension crackling in the shadows, the crossbow guy motions for silence, his finger pressed to his lips. The trio begins their cautious approach toward the porch, their footsteps muted but deliberate, each snap of a twig or crunch of leaves making my pulse hammer harder in my ears.

I have no idea how the hell I'm going to stop three living people when I almost died against two cadavers earlier. All I know is that I can't let them hurt Sophia.

Andrea lags slightly behind the crossbow guy, her flashlight bobbing unevenly as her eyes sweep the area. The third guy—a jittery shadow trailing the others—keeps his hands close to his sides, unarmed.

I clench the knife tighter, its worn handle digging into my palm. Andrea is closest to me, and my body moves on pure instinct before my mind can second-guess. The moment Andrea steps past me, I surge to my feet.

The world narrows to the rush of movement—the shocked gasp that escapes her, the feel of her neck under my forearm as I yank her backward, and the sharp press of my blade against her throat, the point of the blade pressing against her carotid.

Her scream is cut short, morphing into a strained croak. "Daryl—!" she chokes out, her voice tight with panic.

The gruff man, Daryl, whirls around first, his crossbow snapping up instantly to aim at my forehead. The flashlight in his other hand casts a ghostly glow over his furious face, his eyes wide and locked on mine.

The younger guy curses in surprise and stumbles back a step, his hands jerking up defensively, his expression frozen somewhere between fear and disbelief, his eyes wide as he sees me. He looks horrified, poor guy. 

To be fair, I must be quite the sight, a woman covered in mud and dwarfed in Dave's oversized hunting gear, yanking their woman back into my grip, a knife to her throat.

"Back away from the house," I growl, my voice rough and trembling with adrenaline. "Now, or blondie gets it," I snap, trying to sound as tough and intimidating as humanly possible, though I'm not sure how well I'm doing. Maybe the mud smeared all over my face, hands, and hair helps me look insane enough.

Daryl's expression hardens, his jaw clenching as he sizes me up. His grip on the crossbow tightens, but his feet shift, taking a deliberate step away from the porch. The tension in the air is suffocating, each second stretching into eternity as I keep the knife pressed firmly against Andrea's carotid artery.

The younger guy finds his voice, stammering, "Woah, lady! W-We don't want trouble, okay?" His hands remain raised, palms open, a weak attempt at diffusing the situation. His words quiver, barely reaching me over the pounding of my heartbeat.

Andrea remains stiff in my grip, her breaths shallow and rapid. She doesn't struggle, thank god, because my muscles are already screaming, every fiber of my body trembling under the strain of holding her like this. She'd probably win. Quickly.

"Let 'er go," Daryl grunts, his eyes narrowed, voice rough as he glares at me. "We're just lookin' for someone. No need to get your damn panties in a twist."

I narrow my eyes at Daryl, tightening my hold on Andrea as I glance at the other guy, feeling that familiar flicker of panic of being outnumbered. Thankfully, I'm slightly taller than Andrea, so I have that advantage at least. 

"Who're you looking for?" I pant, eyes flicking back to Daryl.

Daryl doesn't move a muscle, his eyes flicking between Andrea's face and mine, gauging the distance. "A girl. Sophia. You seen her?" he asks, shifting on his feet, squinting at me.

The name punches through my composure, but I don't let it show, my heart leaping in my chest. They're actually looking for Sophia. 

I blink, my gaze darting to the cottage, the candlelight now extinguished. Smart girl.

"Who the hell are you?" I spit, purposefully not answering his question knowing he would see through any lie I cook up, my voice cracking slightly as my chest heaves. Shadows stretch and twist across the ground from Andrea's dropped flashlight, its beam casting jagged shapes over the leaves and dirt.

Daryl's expression tightens, his jaw locking. "Ain't got time for this," he mutters under his breath, but his voice is loud enough to reach me. "I told ya, we're just lookin' for a girl. Now put the damn knife down."

The younger guy glances nervously between Daryl and me, sweat gleaming on his brow. He takes a shaky step back, hands still raised. "C'mon, Daryl, maybe she doesn't know anything. We should just—"

"Shut up, Glenn," Daryl huffs, his voice sharp and cutting. His focus remains on me, his knuckles still white around the crossbow. "Lady, I don't know who you are or why you're out here playin' Rambo, but if you know where the kid is, now's the time to speak up." His voice is raspy, and I can tell he's getting impatient. 

I swallow hard, the anger burning in my chest, the clock ticking in the back of my mind. It's only so long until the three who outnumber me, also outmaneuver me. I take a deep breath, trying to steady my racing pulse, but the words feel like sandpaper in my throat. I can't lie; not like this. 

The younger guy—Glenn, I guess—takes a hesitant step closer, his hands still raised. His gaze flicks nervously between Andrea and me, sweat glistening on his brow despite the cool night air.

Before I can warn him not to, he lunges at me.

It's sloppy, desperate—a grab at Andrea's arm to yank her free. I react on pure instinct as I snap my leg up, driving my knee into his groin with a sickening thud while yanking Andrea back out of her reach.

Glenn doubles over with a strangled, pained gasp, collapsing onto the ground and clutching his crotch. "Oh, god—" he wheezes, his words cut off by a groan of agony as he curls into a ball on the forest floor. "Why me?" he whimpers pitifully.

I stare down at him, breathing hard, my pulse pounding in my ears, guilt stirring somewhere within me. He seemed like the nicest once.

"Come on, really dude?" I ask him with an exhale, exasperation dripping from every word. My grip on Andrea tightens as I shift my weight, moving her to a safer position, ignoring the curse under her breath. "Fine. Look, Sophia's just a kid, and I'm not letting just anyone inside without getting her okay first," I finally yield. 

Daryl's eyes widen at my confirmation that Sophia's inside and his body tenses, his head snapping to the cottage, ready to spring into action.

But I'm not done.

"Hey!" I bark, holding my ground. "Still got a knife to your girlfriend's throat, in case you forgot."

Daryl freezes, his jaw tightening, the flash of anger crossing his face. His eyes lock with mine, frustration growing between us.

"Just—stay back," I order, my voice carrying the weight of authority I don't feel.

Daryl hesitates for only a second before complying, his movements tight and measured. Glenn, meanwhile, is still in the fetal position on the ground. I should probably feel bad, but if it's to protect Sophia, it feels worth it. I'm sure he'll be fine. 

"I'll go talk to her," I say, my voice cold and sharp. "And if she knows you, fine. If not..." I let the words hang in the air, my heart pounding. "You're all dead." 

Before either of them can react, I yank the knife from Andrea's throat and shove her forward. She stumbles, her hand flying up to her throat, the sting of the blade's warning still fresh. She shoots me a glare that could burn through steel, but she doesn't say anything. She backs up to Daryl's side, eyes burning with a rage I don't think is going to cool off anytime soon.

I give the trio a final, warning look before I turn on my heel and slip inside the cabin. The door slams shut behind me with a satisfying click of the lock.

As soon as I'm inside, I force myself to take a breath, the adrenaline still surging through me. My body aches from the tension, from the fight I barely kept under control. I resist the urge to let my legs give way, to crumble into the floor.

Not yet. Not until I know she's safe.

"Cassie?" Sophia's voice, soft with concern, drifts from the shadows. I turn, my eyes adjusting to the dim light to see Sophia, curled up on the couch in the corner. 

She's the only thing that matters now.

I smile, despite the exhaustion that's starting to weigh down on me. "Hey, freckles, it's alright," I say, my voice much gentler than the one I used with the trio outside. I walk toward her, every step reminding me how much I hurt, how much I've been pushing myself to hold it together. "I think that some people from your group found you. But I want you to make sure it's them before I let you go out there, alright?"

Sophia's face lights up, eyes wide, and that smile—the one I've been fighting so hard to see again—blooms on her face like sunlight breaking through the clouds. "Really?" she squeaks, her excitement contagious, pulling a smile out of me, even as I try to keep it together.

Nodding, I guide her off the couch to peek through the boards on the windows to look at them, to see if she knows them. Peering through the gaps of the wooden boards on the windows, there's a pause before Sophia squeals with excitement, running for the door, sending a blinding rush of relief through me.

It's her family. Thank god.

I hesitate at first, my body still tense, but then I follow, my legs heavy as I open the door behind Sophia. She's already charging toward the trio as Daryl quickly lowers his crossbow, a faint smile tugging at his stoic expression.

"Hey, kiddo!" Glenn greets, his voice weak but genuine, a grin stretched across his face as he leans against Daryl for support, clearly still... wounded.

I lean against the open doorframe of the Newman cottage, my body finally relaxing, the weight of the day starting to lift as I watch the reunion unfold. Sophia's laughter rings in the air as they check her over, making sure she's alright. I watch them—all four of them—relaxing, their shoulders loosening in relief.

A wistful smile tugs at the corner of my lips. They care so much about her.

I see the way they move, guiding her away, ready to take her back with them. My chest tightens with a bittersweet ache. I'm happy for her—so damn happy she's back with them, with her people. But I try and fail to smother the selfish pang of longing. I had finally found someone, and now I'm alone again. 

I begin to turn away with an inhale, ready to get inside and scrub this itchy-ass mud off me, knowing I've done my job.

"Wait, come with us!" Sophia's voice rings out, bright and full of hope, making me freeze, slowly looking back over my shoulder.

Sophia turns back to me in the dirt in the front yard, and the air shifts, suddenly thick with the weight of four pairs of eyes landing on me. Daryl's eyes narrow, a flicker of distrust in the set of his jaw. Andrea's hand hovers protectively near her throat—still feeling the edge of the knife's warning, I guess. Glenn offers me a tired, uncertain glance, but says nothing.

I guess I didn't exactly make a great first impression.

Looking at Sophia's sweet and hopeful face, I hesitate, my chest tightening. She's standing between Daryl and Andrea, still in the flannel I gave her and Glenn is leaning heavily on Daryl for support. 

My heart pangs. They look so much like a group, a family, and here I am—on the outside, just a shadow, a brief moment in Sophia's life if I can't convince them otherwise.

"Sophia... we need to get you back. Something happened—" Andrea begins, her voice firm but concerned, like she wants to take control of the situation and pull the first dredge of hope in my life away.

But Sophia's having none of it. "She saved me!" she argues, her small voice suddenly rising with defiance, her gaze snapping up to Andrea before turning back to me, her eyes wide and pleading. "Cassie killed two walkers that were gonna bite me and she fed me," she defends me, her voice quivering slightly.

The tension breaks just slightly as the others go still, their eyes flickering to me with a mix of confusion and hesitation. They look at me differently now they know I killed cadavers for her, their hostility still there but tempered by something else. Maybe doubt, maybe curiosity—it's hard to tell.

I swallow hard, the lump in my throat thick with the weight of everything hanging in the balance. This moment feels like it could go either way—my chance to prove I'm not just a threat, not just another stranger in the woods, but someone who can help.

This is what I've been begging for. I can't afford to let this opportunity go.

I take a hesitant step forward onto the porch, every muscle in my body protesting, the weight of the day still pressing down on me, but I push it aside.

"Look," I start, my voice low but steady, "I know... you guys probably aren't my biggest fans right now, but I—I'm a doctor," I offer, making them stiffen, glancing at each other. "A pediatric surgeon, but I was still trained in everything else, I can—"

"A pediatric surgeon?" Glenn cuts me off with a laugh of amazement. The sound catches me off guard, and I blink, confused by his reaction, but I nod.

"Uh... yeah," I reply, trying to push through the fog of doubt in my mind. "I was a resident at Atlanta General."

"Holy shit—we have a kid who's been shot! He needs surgery like, now!" Glenn's words tumble out in a rush, the urgency in his tone leaving no room for misinterpretation.

My heart lurches out of my chest and into my throat, and it's all I can do to not let my knees buckle. 

Sophia, who had been listening intently, jerks her head toward Glenn. "Carl?" Her voice is small and hesitant, but laced with fear, her chest heaving.

I watch as Daryl's expression softens slightly for the first time since I've met him. He nods in confirmation to Sophia's question, his jaw tight, and that's when I hear it—the sharp intake of breath from Sophia as she turns to me, her eyes wide with desperation.

"Please! Please, come with us!" she pleads, her voice breaking like shattered glass as she takes a hesitant step forward, her little body drowning in Dave's flannel. "You have to save him!" Her sobs are raw and desperate, her wide eyes locked onto mine as if I'm the only thing standing between life and death.

My heart slams against my ribs. The weight of the decision coils around my chest, suffocating. Fear, doubt, and every nightmare I've tried to outrun surge forward, clawing at my resolve. I force myself to breathe, to push past the paralyzing grip of the unknown, looking to the others for their decision.

"Damn it," Daryl curses under his breath, rough and edged with something dangerously close to hope. His sharp eyes pin me in place, scrutinizing every twitch of my expression. "You better not be lyin', Rambo. Get your ass over here before we change our minds."

The words crash over me, and I exhale so hard I nearly choke. My chest heaves, my fingers trembling as I nod. "Give me one second," I say, urgency threading my voice. I don't give them time to argue before I spin on my heel and bolt inside.

My mind blurs as I grab my bag—the one that's been packed since Atlanta burned behind me. The weight of it is familiar, comforting, filled with the remnants of a life I barely recognize: a few changes of clothes, scattered meds that might help Carl, and my stethoscope—a symbol of who I used to be. I sling my bag over my shoulder, the strap biting into my skin, a reminder that this is all I have left.

The cool night air slaps me as I rush back outside. My boots hit the ground hard, but I barely notice, too focused on the trio waiting for me. Andrea watches me with sharp, skeptical eyes, her stance rigid.

As I step closer, I feel the weight of their gazes—assessing, measuring, deciding if I'm salvation or just another burden. The only one who doesn't scrutinize me is Sophia. Her small face is tight with worry, her hands clenched into fists.

"Lead the way," I say, my voice steady despite the storm inside me.

I steal one last glance at the cottage—the only home I've had in weeks. The place where Dave and Betty took me in, gave me a chance when the world had already taken everything. A familiar pang of guilt twists deep in my chest. I don't have time to dwell on it.

I square my shoulders and turn away, my steps falling in sync with the others as we slip into the trees.

The forest closes around us, shadows stretching long under the flashlights. The smell of damp earth and decaying leaves clings to the air, every rustling branch a whisper of danger. Glenn leads the way to the farm, his pace urgent, while Daryl keeps close to Sophia in front of me, murmuring to her.

"Your mom's waitin' for you in the RV on the interstate," he mumbles, voice softer than I've heard from him, but still rough. "I'll take you to her."

Sophia shakes her head stubbornly, and from here, I can see her determined expression lit up by Daryl's flashlight. "No," she says, voice small but firm. "Not yet. I need to make sure Carl's okay."

Daryl exhales through his nose but doesn't argue. I see it then—the way he looks at her, not with impatience, but understanding. He gets it. He knows what it's like to hold onto someone when the whole world is trying to rip them away.

I swallow hard and keep moving, each step tightening the knot in my stomach.

I've survived hell. Held the hands of the dying. Stitched together bodies that should've been beyond saving.

I can do this.

I will do this. 

We arrive at the farm under a sky of deep indigo, the darkness stretching wide and endless above us. The fields ripple with the hush of the night breeze, and a thin veil of fog clings to the lush grass, curling around the wooden fence posts. Ahead, the white two-story farmhouse rises against the night, its windows glowing with warm, golden light—a beacon in the darkness. It looks almost untouched by the world's collapse. Almost.

If my hands weren't trembling with adrenaline, if my heart weren't slamming against my ribs, and if I weren't on the verge of shitting myself with fear, I might have stopped to admire the beauty of the surrounding farm as we walk urgently up the dirt road leading to the farmhouse.

My eyes are locked on the back of Glenn's head as he leads us forward, my mind spinning through every gunshot wound I've ever treated, every time I've excised a bullet from flesh, every moment I've battled the odds to keep a patient breathing.

Glenn is the only one who's been inside the farm. He'd come earlier with T-Dog, who sliced his arm open and needed antibiotics. But he didn't have time to take in the full extent of Carl's condition before he was back out here, scouring the woods for Sophia with Daryl and Andrea.

I had tried prying for details—how bad was it? Was Carl awake? Was he bleeding out? Did they have the right supplies? But Glenn was as lost as me. That uncertainty gnaws at me now, twisting my nerves even tighter.

I quicken my pace, the farmhouse looming closer. Whatever waits inside, I have to be ready.

── ⋆⋅☤⋅⋆ ──

- Rick's POV -

Terror floods my body, locking my muscles in place as I hover behind Lori, my hands braced against the edge of the bed. My fingers dig desperately into the mattress like it's the only thing keeping me from falling apart. My heart pounds, slamming against my ribs as if trying to break free, and my stomach twists into a painful knot that threatens to choke me.

I watch—helpless—as Hershel leans over Carl, his weathered hands tilting my son's small, sweat-slick face, checking his pupils with a practiced, steady touch.

Carl just had a seizure.

The words crash through my mind, brutal and unforgiving. My son just had a seizure. My son. Just had a seizure.

Each repetition burns worse than the last, clawing through my chest like a wound that won't heal. I'm rooted to the spot, my legs trembling, my head spinning. The panic is suffocating. The helplessness, the terror of seeing Carl convulsing, of knowing there was nothing I could do to stop it—it claws at my spine, leaves my skin cold, and has my breath coming in desperate, shallow gasps.

"His brain isn't gettin' enough blood," Hershel says, his voice steady but grim. "His pressure's droppin'. He needs another transfusion."

I don't think. I don't hesitate.

"Okay, I'm ready," I rasp, my throat raw, the words choking out of me. My arm extends toward Hershel, already offering the site where the gauze is taped to my skin, my eyes locking with his. Determination surges through me like a shot of adrenaline, edged with raw desperation. I don't care, I'll give him every drop if it means Carl can open his eyes again.

Hershel looks up at me, those sharp blue eyes cutting through the haze of panic and pain. They're steady, unyielding—but not unkind. "If I take any more outta you, your body could shut down," he warns, his voice a low rumble. "You could go into a coma. Or cardiac arrest."

His words land like a punch to the gut, knocking the breath from me. My body screams for rest, for relief from the constant blood loss, the exhaustion grinding me down to nothing—but none of that matters. I shake my head, sinking onto the chair beside Carl's bed.

"You're wastin' time," I growl stubbornly, my voice cracking, but there's no room for argument.

Lori's hand finds my back, rubbing slow, comforting circles, but I can't find the energy to acknowledge her. My focus is locked on Carl, on the shallow rise and fall of his chest, on the pale, sweat-damp skin that looks too fragile, too still.

Hershel exhales a quiet sigh but doesn't waste another second. He grabs the transfusion kit and rounds the bed, moving with the efficiency of a man who knows time is running out.

I let my head hang for a moment, my expression crumpling under the weight of the fear settling inside me.

Come on, Carl. Stay with me, baby boy. 

The words echo in my head, a desperate prayer I don't bother to say out loud.

I wince as Hershel sticks the needle into my vein again, the sharp sting barely cutting through the exhaustion that's already wearing me down to nothing. I lean back as instructed, the slow pull of my blood siphoning away what little strength I have left.

"I need more towels. I'll be back," Hershel says, his Southern drawl soft and steady.

Lori nods, her gaze still fixed on Carl, distant, numb. She sinks into the chair beside me, her knee bouncing restlessly, fingers twisting together in an anxious rhythm. She doesn't look at me. Doesn't speak. Just watches Carl, her eyes tracing every inch of him as if willing him to wake.

I don't speak. Don't move. I can't.

My vision blurs, not just from the dizziness creeping in, but from the horror of the reality I find myself in, the nightmare of the day spinning over and over in my mind.

Getting stuck on the interstate. Losing Sophia.

Wandering the woods, chasing shadows, stumbling upon that old church.

Sitting in front of that Jesus statue, begging for a sign, for some kind of answer to this nightmare we're in.

And then—there it was. The deer.

A moment of peace, a flicker of something. A sign that maybe, just maybe, my prayers had been heard.

But that peace, that hope, shattered with the deafening crack of the gunshot. Carl's small body crumpling to the ground, my child's blood staining the earth.

An echoing crash jerks me from my daze, my stomach clenching as the farmhouse fills with noise—rushed stomping footsteps and overlapping raised voices. Shadows flicker across the doorway, long and frantic in the lamplight.

Lori sits up straight, her breath coming fast. Her hand grips my knee, small but urgent, seeking reassurance. But I have none to give. My pulse pounds, dread settling like a stone in my gut.

"Think that's Shane?" Lori whispers, her voice thin, frayed by the weight of unspoken fears. "And the man who shot Carl?"

I shake my head, no.

I'd know Shane's voice anywhere—loud, demanding, impossible to mistake. This is something else. Maybe Glenn and the others?

The fear begins to spiral, a pit opening in my stomach. Where are Shane and Otis? Why aren't they back yet? Did something happen to Shane? Is he hurt? Is my best friend—

A figure appears in the doorway, cutting off the thought before it can spiral.

The person is covered in mud, streaked with grime, their silhouette nearly swallowed by layers of heavy hunting gear. The weight of it makes them appear daunting, as if they're an embodiment of the wildness outside, standing there in the dim light of the farmhouse. But it's their eyes—piercing green, sharp, and unyielding—that lock onto mine. They hit me like a bolt of electricity, sending a shock of something unfamiliar, but fierce and primal through my chest.

Who the hell—

Panic explodes inside me, hot and fast. My body tenses, the instinct to fight or flee overwhelming, and I try to push myself up, ready for whatever comes next, no matter how much goddamn blood I've given.

But the world tilts sideways. My vision blurs, the dizziness finally winning. With a weak grunt, I slump back into the chair, my breath coming in shallow, frantic gasps. Everything blurs around the edges, like the room is sinking into a fog.

"Rick!" Lori's voice cuts through it, soft but urgent. Her hands clamp around my arms, grounding me. I blink hard, trying to clear my mind, to focus. My heart is hammering, my muscles still coiled in tension, but somehow her touch helps pull me back to the present.

Then, a new voice—a nice voice—honey-smooth, warm, and completely unexpected speaks up, raising goosebumps on my skin.

"It's alright, I promise, I'm not gonna hurt you. I'm a friend."

I jolt, blinking again, staring up at the mud-covered figure. That voice... does not match.

That's... a woman?

She shifts on her feet, hesitant but deliberate. Her posture is stiff with uncertainty, like she's not sure whether to approach or retreat. Her eyes dart between me, Lori, and Carl, taking in the scene, reading us, measuring the distance between danger and relief. Her gaze flickers quickly, sharp with caution but not hostile—there's something almost apologetic in the way she holds herself, like she knows how jarring her presence must be.

"Sorry," she mutters, rubbing the back of her neck, glancing briefly behind her before locking eyes with me again. "I know this is... a lot." Her voice is steady, but there's a tremor underneath it, a hint of vulnerability. "I didn't mean to... scare you or anything."

She clears her throat, a small, awkward sound that lingers in the air before she continues. "Um... I found Sophia earlier today in the creek. We've been looking for you guys all day, but..." She huffs a soft, self-deprecating chuckle. "Daryl, Glenn, and Andrea beat me to it. I convinced Soph to stay put in the living room for a minute before I let her see Carl."

Sophia.

The name lands like a weight lifting off my chest, but it's not panic that rushes in now—it's relief. Sophia's alive.

The tension in my body unspools, muscles going slack, and I sink back into the chair, letting the exhaustion in my bones take over. My heart is still hammering, but the pressure in my chest loosens, just enough to let me breathe again. Carl's still—Christ, Carl's still like this—but at least Sophia's safe.

"Thank God," I rasp, my voice a hoarse whisper as I drag a hand down my face, trying to shake the weight of guilt that's clung to me all day. Beside me, Lori exhales softly, her palm smoothing over my leg in quiet reassurance. She doesn't say it, but I know she sees it—the weight of responsibility, the guilt I've been drowning under, even if she doesn't mention it. She doesn't have to.

My mind can't help but replay the image of Sophia, terrified, lost—but now, alive. The gnawing fear that had settled into my gut is ebbing, slowly, piece by piece.

And then, the woman's voice again—calm, steady, almost too composed for someone who looks like she's been dragged through a damn swamp.

"And..." she begins, a pause between her words, letting them hang in the air before continuing. "I'm Cassandra Adams... Dr. Cassandra Adams." Her voice sharpens as she exhales. "I want to see if I can help your son."

The words don't sink in right away, my brain struggling to keep up with the weight of everything that's happening. I blink, my vision swimming, trying to make sense of it. I see sincerity in her eyes, the only part of her face not covered in grime. But still, why the hell is she covered in mud?

"Doctor?" Lori whispers, her hand tightening around my arm, her voice trembling with disbelief. "Like... like an actual medical doctor? For people?"

The woman tilts her head, regarding Lori with an expression I can't quite read, but then—there it is. The faintest flicker of an understanding smile on her lips, a crack in the hardened exterior that her mud-smeared face has built around her. "Yeah. An MD. A pediatric surgeon, actually."

The room tilts again, but this time, it's not from blood loss.

I just stare at her.

A pediatric surgeon.

Carl is on the bed beside me, dying. His little body is struggling, barely holding on, and standing ten feet away from us is a surgeon trained to save kids just like him?

I can feel my pulse in my throat, pounding, thumping. The air feels too thick to breathe, and I try to steady myself, but my chest tightens, my heart racing with disbelief.

No. This can't be real. This can't be happening.

My hackles rise instantly. Suspicion claws its way to the surface, sharp and urgent. Too convenient. Too perfect. Too damn impossible.

"What hospital?" I demand, my voice sharper now, the rasp edged with distrust.

The woman, Cassandra, blinks, taken aback for only a second as she looks at me. "Atlanta General," she answers without hesitation.

Atlanta General.

A real hospital. A damn good one. But the words taste bitter in my mouth. That doesn't mean I'm buying it. My gut coils, tight and uneasy, warning me not to trust this—not yet.

I want to believe her. Hell, I need to. But this world doesn't just hand out miracles. Not anymore.

Cassandra exhales, shifting her weight, her gaze flickering to Carl's still, fevered body before it locks onto mine. There's something in her eyes—steady, unyielding, and strangely... familiar. 

"I know you don't trust me," she starts, her voice low, almost rueful. "Hell, I wouldn't trust me either. Who can you trust these days?" She lets out a small, humorless huff, the sound rough against the tension in the room. "But what would I get out of lying to you about this? This is what I do—did do—before all this happened. Surgery. On pediatric patients. Not with so few resources, no, but I've done it. And if Hershel's right about what's going on here, Carl doesn't have much time."

Her voice doesn't waver, doesn't plead. It's flat, factual—like she's been here before. Like saving lives used to be second nature to her, even in the chaos.

I grit my teeth, a cold dread crawling up my spine. My eyes flick back to Carl. His chest barely rises. His skin is clammy and too pale—like a fragile, broken thing in that bed. My stomach churns, a hollow ache deep inside me.

My baby boy.

Then, I look back up, meeting those green eyes once more. A stranger. A woman covered in mud, standing there with the weight of our son's life hanging on her every word.

Lori's hand tightens on my leg, a silent plea that echoes louder than any words could. I meet her gaze to see she's begging with her eyes. Pleading me to make a choice, to do something, anything to fix this. To fix Carl.

I look back at Cassandra, the woman who says she can save my son. My eyes narrow, searching her mud-smeared face for any crack, any sign that this could be a trick. But all I find is that unflinching determination, and a quiet kind of certainty. And I realize I don't have a damn choice.

"Then save him."

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