[ xi. a breath too late ]

june 25th, 2012

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IN THE WARMLY LIT dining room of the sheltering house, Astrid Lancaster sat at the worn wooden table the next day, her bruised fingers clutching yet another small bowl of dry cereal. She was living off of it at this point. Sitting opposite her, Carl, with a mop of unruly hair and a bowl of his own, shared in the quietude. Yet, it was a peaceful silence that enveloped them, punctuated only by the occasional crunch of cereal between their teeth. Beyond the dining room's boundaries, Rick and Michonne were elsewhere, but never too far from reach.

Then, as if on cue, Michonne strolled into the room. Her long, graceful fingers were currently buttoning up a new, long-sleeved, white-pressed shirt—a top that could have easily belonged to a corporate executive in the world before the apocalypse. The incongruity did not go unnoticed.

Carl apparently shared Astrid's unspoken thoughts and burst into laughter. The sound was like a long-forgotten melody, a rare moment of genuine joy that had become a distant memory. Astrid could not resist the infectious sound, her own bubbling up in response.

Michonne, initially eyeing them with a hint of suspicion, could not hold back her smile any longer. "Do either of you have something to say about my extremely comfortable and attractive shirt?" She teased lightheartedly.

"No, it looks great," Carl insisted, his laughter still echoing, while Astrid's eyes sparkled as she smiled into her cereal bowl.

Michonne gracefully took a seat beside Astrid at the table. As she poured herself a bowl of cereal, a wistful sigh escaped her lips. "I wish we had some soy milk."

Astrid wrinkled her nose. "I hate milk."

Carl and Michonne exchanged incredulous glances. "What?" The younger of the two gasped. "How can you hate milk?"

Astrid looked at Carl with an arched eyebrow. "Ever accidentally taken a sip of sour milk?" She countered, her voice imbued with the memories of unpleasant experiences. When the boy shook his head, she continued, "That'll change your opinion on milk quicker than you can say it. Ever since I was ten years old, I've hated the stuff. The end of the world isn't going to change my mind on that."

Carl paused, digesting her words along with his cereal. Meanwhile, Michonne interjected with a chuckle, "You'd like soy milk."

"Soy milk is gross," Carl declared.

"Have you ever tried it?" Michonne prodded, her eyes shining with a touch of mischief.

Carl smiled widely as he began to recount a childhood memory, "My best friend in third grade was allergic to dairy. So, every day, he would bring this soy stuff to lunch," He reminisced. "One day, I tried it."

Michonne leaned forward, captivated by the story. "And?"

"I threw up!" Carl exclaimed, laughter bubbling up once more. Astrid could not help but join in again.

Michonne scoffed as her lips curved into a playful smile. "Oh, yeah, right!"

Carl, still grinning, held his hands up in mock surrender. "Alright, alright, I almost threw up," He admitted. "But it really was disgusting. I mean, literally, I would rather have powdered milk than have to drink that God-awful stuff again. I would rather have Judith's formula—"

The boy instantly fell silent.

Carl's once-cheerful demeanor was rapidly replaced by sorrow and regret. Astrid's heart ached in response, and she could see the same somber realization in Michonne's expression. Both the boy's and the Lancaster woman's minds collectively traveled back to when they had found Judith's bloody carrier at the prison. Judith, an innocent baby—not even a year old yet—had deserved so much better.

"Carl—" Astrid began, but the boy was already on his feet.

"I'm going to go finish my book," He announced quietly, now steadily avoiding eye contact with both women. With that, the grieving boy slipped from the dining room and down the hall.

Michonne and Astrid sat in a heavy silence for a moment. Then the latter pushed her chair back and rose to her feet. "Excuse me," She murmured. Though she felt guilty about leaving Michonne alone, it was clear that Carl needed her presence more.

Crossing the lower floor of the house, Astrid entered the farthest room away from the kitchen and found Carl seated at a windowsill, a small book resting on his lap. It was not open. He appeared lost in thought, distant and troubled. She knocked softly on the wall. "You want to talk?" She asked gently.

"No," Carl replied simply, his gaze still far away.

Though she had expected that response, Astrid refused to accept it. She stepped further into the room and closed the door behind her. "Carl," She addressed. "Please talk to me. Are you—"

"Don't. I'm fine," He responded. "I'm just tired," He added, almost as an afterthought. Yet it was clear to the Lancaster woman that the weariness in his young voice extended beyond mere exhaustion.

Still, Astrid would take the bait he offered. For now. "Well, that happens when you spend a whole day running around town, climbing on roofs, and dodging walkers," She attempted to lighten the mood with a touch of humor. However, her efforts fell flat as Carl remained unmoving.

Astrid stood there, in the middle of the room, in silence for a moment longer before Carl finally turned his head to meet her eyes. "Do you miss Daryl?" He suddenly asked.

"Of course I do."

"Do you think he's dead?"

At such a question, Astrid found herself plunging, once more, into a familiar and cruel chasm of doubt. Since their separation at the fallen prison, she had avoided contemplating Daryl's fate for too long, unwilling to confront such possibilities. She had to cling to the hope that he was alive, searching for her. It was the only option.

Carl's expectant gaze brought her back to reality, and she cleared her throat. "No," She answered. "I don't believe he's dead. Do you?"

Carl shrugged. "We can't be sure if anyone else made it out."

"That's not true," She countered softly. "We all scattered in different directions, but that doesn't mean it's over. Michonne found us, after all."

"You should be with Daryl right now," Carl stated, his ocean eyes lifting to meet her forest-colored ones. "If I hadn't run off, you'd still be with him."

Astrid sensed Carl's guilt instantly. And she would not let him bear the burden of their current circumstances. Moving closer to the boy, she settled on the windowsill beside him. "Carl, that wasn't your fault," She reassured him. "I chose to chase after you. It was my decision that led to Daryl and me being separated. If there's blame to be placed, it's on me."

Carl lowered his gaze to his hands, his thoughts likely still so very heavy with their past mistakes. Silence hung between them, and Astrid grappled for words, torn between steering clear of painful topics like Judith and Daryl, and recognizing that their lives were intricately intertwined with their loved ones. Clearing her throat, she prepared to speak just as the distant voices of Rick and Michonne reached their ears, calling for them. Carl slowly stood, his movements still weighed down, and she followed closely behind.

They approached the front door of the house. Michonne had regathered her weapons and a large bag, while Rick leaned against the foyer wall, his stance rigid. Despite the days of recovery that they had been granted, his pain was still obvious. Astrid's was, too. She still could not handle much exertion. Even short bursts sent her doubling over in pain.

Carl's brow furrowed. "What's going on?" He wondered.

"You and Michonne are going to go gather some more supplies," Rick explained to his son. "We're running low, and if we're going to be heading out in a couple of days, we can't afford to leave empty-handed."

Despite her physical discomfort, Astrid's interest was piqued at the thought of taking on the open road again. "Where are we going to go?" Her arms loosely crossed over her chest.

"I'm not sure," Rick admitted. "We can't go back. We just need to keep moving forward. Hopefully, we'll find others."

Astrid swallowed tightly, her mind unable to grasp the idea of leaving behind the members of their group for good. What would become of Daryl, Maggie, Glenn, Sasha, Beth, or Bailey if they left them behind?

Movement in her peripheral vision snapped her out of her reverie. Michonne handed her large, empty duffle bag to Carl. "We'll find what we can," She assured. "We shouldn't be too long."

Rick undid his watch and glanced down at it. "It's eight-fifteen right now," He informed them.

"We'll be back by noon," Michonne promised.

Rick then withdrew his revolver and handed it to Carl, his paternal concern evident as he emphasized, "You follow her lead, understand?" Carl nodded silently, his eyes cast downward. The father's concern suddenly deepened, and he probed further. "Hey, is everything okay?"

Carl's gaze remained fixed on the ground, and it took a moment before he finally looked up to meet Rick's worried expression. "Yeah, I'm just . . . hungry," He explained. Once more, Astrid could discern that his hunger was not the true root of his unease. First, he had claimed to her that he was only tired. Then he had insisted to his own father that it was only hunger. Now, the Lancaster woman could not help but wonder what he might potentially reveal to Michonne next.

Rick, though wary, ultimately nodded in response and offered his son a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "All right," He said softly. "We'll see you in a couple of hours."

"Be careful," Astrid called after them as they stepped off the porch and started toward the street.

As soon as Michonne and Carl were out of sight, Rick and Astrid retreated back inside the house, their paths diverging without a word. Astrid slowly ascended the stairs, heading for the biggest bedroom, while Rick disappeared into the bathroom—perhaps to redo his bandages. Now in the spacious master bedroom, she sank down onto the king-sized mattress, allowing her battered body to pull her deeper into the cozy blankets.

Yet, in the stillness of the room, tears naturally welled up in Astrid's eyes, defying her attempts to control them. She drew in a deep, quaking breath as her thoughts inevitably gravitated toward Daryl. She fought against her own mind, struggling to banish his image from her thoughts. She dreaded speculating about the trials her hunter might be enduring—lost, scared, injured, or worse. All she wanted was to have him beside her, both of them safe and secure, sharing the comfort of a real bed.

She hated that could not be their reality. It was her own recklessness that had torn them apart in the first place. She had been imprudent, arrogantly believing herself invulnerable. She had fled from Daryl, promising a return, yet her promise had proven empty.

The Lancaster woman's mind struggled beneath her own unanswered questions. Did he think of her as frequently as she did of him? Did he hold faith in her survival, or had doubt crept into him? Astrid knew Daryl for what he was—a realist, incapable of embracing genuine hope in a world that had turned so relentlessly broken and bleak. Pessimism, not optimism, had become his armor.

The sound of approaching footsteps shattered her thoughts, and Astrid looked up to find Rick entering the bedroom. He balanced a water bottle, his watch, and a small book in his bandaged hands before placing them carefully on the bedside table. Collapsing onto the bed beside her, Rick stared up at the ceiling.

"You okay?" He asked her.

Astrid turned to meet Rick's concerned stare and sighed, "I'm tired," She admitted.

It dawned on her, only a breath too late, that she had offered the same excuse Carl had employed earlier to evade such prying questions.

Rick nodded in understanding. "We should get some rest," He suggested. Astrid agreed easily. She shifted onto her better side, carefully easing the weight off her wounded hip and leg. Then she buried her face in the pillow and wrapped a blanket tighter around her shoulders. She drew in another deep breath, allowing her eyelids to close, and gradually descended into the shadowy depths of slumber . . .

"No!"

A sharp cry shattered the silence. Astrid was wrenched from sleep in an instant, her heart pounding fiercely within her chest. Tremors coursed through her body like electric shocks, and a cold sweat now clung to her skin as she struggled for breath. She turned her head to the left, finding Rick wide awake, his eyes darting nervously from side to side. The ear-piercing scream of an unfamiliar man, which had initially seemed like a mere nightmare, was now unmistakably real. It was joined by deep, malevolent laughter, as multiple sinister voices merged together as one.

They were not alone.

~~~~~~~~~~