Carl carefully studied Michonne's movements, determined to absorb as much knowledge as he could.

"You seem to know a lot about pancakes," he said, mentally noting how much batter she had dropped into the sizzling pan, how she held the spatula, how the batter started to puff up, little air bubbles popping through the surface.

"I am a pancake master," Michonne replied proudly, like that was a badge of honor or something.

Carl laughed at that. She said such weird things sometimes. Whenever the other adults did something like that he always felt as though they were treating him like a child, but Michonne was different. She was just playing around with him, like a friend.

"I used to make Andre these little pancakes in the shape of Mickey Mouse," she continued, "He would smile and smile. It was the cutest thing."

Partway through her story, something caught Carl's eye by the doorway. He looked up to see his dad leaning against the doorframe.

Carl froze in place. Dad doesn't know about Andre yet!

Michonne noticed that he wasn't saying anything and turned to see what he was looking at.

The quiet stretched out. Carl had a sinking feeling in his stomach as he watched his dad look down at his feet then back up at Michonne uncertainly.

"Who was Andre?"

"Andre was my son," Carl heard Michonne reply, that barely hidden sadness in her voice again, "He was three."

Rick looked stricken, tears starting to spill over his face. Carl couldn't take it anymore.

"Dad, stop it! Don't do that, please!" Carl pleaded, angry even though he knew his dad couldn't help it.

He hated that broken-hearted look that his dad got every time he realized that something terrible had happened. Everything was okay a minute ago. Why does this always have to happen?

Rick turned and walked out of the kitchen, one hand covering his face.

After a slow heartbeat, Michonne told him, "It's okay, Carl. Wait here," and followed after his dad.

Carl stood still, looking at Michonne's spatula, lying discarded on the kitchen table. He felt sad for her again. He felt sad for Judith. How can we do this? Our family is so broken... I don't know what to do.

Another thought whispered in his mind, What would Beth tell me right now?

Ever since they left the farm, the older girl always came up with something to do to make things better. We don't get to be upset. We all have jobs to do.

During that long winter before they found the prison, when the group was chased from one house after another, barely stopping to rest, their stomachs empty for days, Carl remembered one particularly bleak day. He sat on the gravel by the road, sulking and ignoring whatever his mom was telling him. He remembered thinking maybe they should stay there and wait for the end.

Beth came over and said, "Carl, get up, help me with something," and told him to help her look for small sticks that Daryl could make into arrows. At first Carl had been sullen, whining to Beth that there was no point, but he helped her anyway and after a half hour of poking around in the woods, he found that his stomach didn't hurt quite as much.

Daryl appreciated the small gift, but he still wouldn't let Carl fire his crossbow.

I'm done feeling sorry for myself.

Carl wiped his eyes and straightened his hat. Michonne will take care of my dad. I have to do this now.

With one hand steadying the frying pan handle and the other gripping the metal spatula, Carl mentally prepared himself for the task at hand. Well, here goes nothing!

Eyes narrowed in determination, Carl carefully pushed the edge of the spatula under the pancake and twisted his wrist. The half-cooked pancake flopped over onto itself in a splatter.

Okay, next one wait a little longer, Carl thought as he attempted to push the splattered tendrils of pancake batter back into a more pancake-like shape.

Eventually he managed to flip that first pancake and it came out alright, a tad burnt in places but alright. The second attempt burnt quickly and stuck to the pan. Frustrated, Carl scraped the inedible mess out, letting it fall into the fire. Then he sprayed the pan with more cooking spray.

The next pancake turned out better. Pretty soon Carl fell into a rhythm of spray, pour, wait, nudge, wait, flip, wait, wait, scoop and turned out several decent looking pancakes.

Feeling accomplished, Carl took a bite from one of the small hotcakes slowly piling up on the big round plate. Of course he had to test it, for quality control.

It tasted good, considering how long it had been since he'd eaten any kind of bread.

He took another big bite. A cool gust of wind blew in through the open window. Carl shivered and decided it was okay to eat one pancake by himself. He'd save the rest to share with his dad and Michonne.

Carl put a spare dish towel over the plate to keep the pancakes warm and turned back to scoop another cup of batter only to discover flames creeping up the curtains.

Carl's eyes opened wide at the sight of the fire. The wind must have blown the curtains too close to the make-shift campfire in the kitchen sink and the ends took light while his back was turned.

Reacting instinctually, Carl batted at the flames desperately with the spatula but it was no use. The spatula got tangled in the curtains and the flames only grew. He jerked his hand away, accidentally knocking the frying pan onto the floor in the process.

This was bad. Carl picked up the frying pan and stepped back from the sink, eyes searching over the room for anything that might help.

Another gust of wind rushed through the small opening in the window and the fire leapt higher. In seconds the cabinets on either side were starting to blacken around the edges.

The fire was spreading much faster than Carl could think of a way out of his predicament.

Coming to a decision, Carl let the frying pan slip out of his fingers and clatter to the floor once more. He turned on his heels and ran out of the kitchen, through the dining room and into the living room where he found his dad and Michonne.

They were sitting on the floor near the stairs, sitting very close together, Carl noted, arms draped around each other. His dad didn't seem to be upset anymore, which was a relief. They were talking quietly.

Carl came to a halt in front of them. For some reason it felt a little awkward to interrupt them.

"Uh, you guys?" Carl said anxiously. Whatever was going on here would have to wait.

His dad looked up as if he hadn't heard Carl run into the room. Rick stood up and started to say something, "Listen, Carl I don't-"

"I need to tell you something important!" Carl declared, cutting him off.

Carl grimaced, almost reluctant to say it. I'm going to be in SO much trouble.

Rick and Michonne were both standing now, staring at him expectantly.

"Please don't be mad, but the kitchen is on fire."

"What?" "The kitchen is what?"

Carl wasn't sure who said what because they were talking at the same time but soon everyone was running into the kitchen to see what was going on.

Sure enough, the fire had spread to the cabinets and the wallpaper and looked to be growing steadily.

"Do we have a fire extinguisher?" Michonne asked, looking around and deftly grabbing the plate of pancakes from the counter and backing up into Rick, who backed up into Carl, who was hesitating in the doorway.

"It was an accident! I'm sorry!" Carl said, not sure if anyone was listening to him at that point. Why does nothing ever go my way?!