He looked like he would die easily if his father wasn't the one wearing the sheriff's hat.

Birdie hated it when she was right.

Sometimes.

But as she ran to the point that her legs ached, and she felt the harsh sun's warmth, she really, really hated being right.

Not that she knew Carl or anything, but the small whimpers and cries that came out of Rick's mouth clenched her heart in some way, even though she felt it was quite intrusive since she didn't even know Rick.

What she did know, however, was that they needed to hurry. The guy that shot Carl had told them that they needed to head to a big, white farmhouse and look for Hershel.

She thought it was pretty shitty instruction-giving, but it wasn't like they had unlimited time to decide or to ponder, or for her to pull the middle finger at him as she signed something along the lines of, "You're fucking stupid, old man."

But she hadn't done that, only because there was a literal child dying right in the grass, lying on the ground. Instead, Birdie sucked it up and ran alongside Rick. Since she was a kid, she was faster—meaning that she would arrive to whoever Hershel was quicker than him.

By the time she could hear Rick's loud pants behind her, her eyes caught on a reasonably-sized farmhouse—one that looked straight out of a supermarket's kids section. But Birdie couldn't focus on that right now—she shouldn't. All she needed to do was find Hershel, help Carl stay alive, and... maybe get some food for herself.

She could see a small figure walk out of the house, standing on the porch. She couldn't see exactly who it could be—boy or girl—but the colour of their shirt was clearly pink. Next thing she heard was a distant yell, which she assumed was the Pink Shirt Person.

The minute Birdie arrived at the porch, about five people exited the house. They all looked the same, like one big family. The old guy with graying hair spoke first, Birdie assumed he was Hershel—since he looked like one. "Was he bit?" He asked loudly.

"Shot," Rick responded, shaking his head, panting heavily as he held Carl in his arms. "By your man."

"Otis?" A woman questioned, her face scrunching up in confusion.

Birdie stepped back, hiding behind Rick.

Panting, Rick answered the woman's question. "He said to find Hershel," he recalled, looking at the old man. "Is that you?"

Hershel only nodded, walking closer to Rick and Birdie.

"Help me," Rick whimpered, his face contorting in pain, desperation, coated in sweat and grime. "Help my boy!"

"Get him inside!" Hershel yelled, turning around and heading back in. "Inside!"

Birdie scrambled behind Rick, the situation causing her to panic as well. Hershel began barking orders at everyone, leading Rick to a room by the corner, setting Carl down on the bed.

Birdie couldn't deny that seeing Carl limp, dirty, and clothes caked with blood, didn't scare her. She had never seen someone look so dead, but was alive at the same time—it shook her to her core. Not to mention that he was a kid, older than her, but still, he could have his life taken away from him any second that easily.

As she watched the commotion go on in front of her, everything blurred around her and she stood still by the door, just watching.

It annoyed her to some extent of how this made her react. She was panicking within, she knew. She was thinking back to that night—the horror and grief that followed. Birdie hoped that Rick wouldn't feel that way anytime soon, that Carl would be able to live.

People piled into the room and Birdie felt herself slipping out, her shoes scuffing against the wooden floor. She didn't want to witness what could happen next. Whether it was fixing Carl up for him to live, or to see him die. Anything that involved opening someone up made her nauseous.

Suddenly, she got a whiff of sweat beside her and turned her head to see Rick sniffing—his face grim, clothes crimson, and hands shaking in fear. He looked scared with his brown, glossy eyes, and quivering lip. Birdie felt bad for him, frowning as she looked up at him with a certain sympathy to her gaze.

Looking back at the window, she could spot Otis and Shane hurrying to the door—but it was mostly Shane shoving Otis forward and the man struggling.

When they reached the door, Rick stumbled outside, chest heaving, eyes glazed, face scrunched up in pain—as if he'd been shot.

For now, Birdie decided to stay out of the way.

She looked around the house. It looked just as impressive as it did on the outside. It reminded her of her sister's old farmhouse—the kid-sized one they had out back. Violet was the youngest, so she'd always been spoiled the most. She deserved it, though, since she always felt inferior to others because of her deafness.

A hand crept itself to her shoulder, startling Birdie, who turned around almost immediately, flinching back in surprise. However, it didn't seem to be a walker—obviously, her paranoia was playing her—but it was the lady who was wearing the pink shirt.

She smiled down at her. "Hey, sweetie. You wanna go wash up in the bathroom?" Her voice was sickeningly sweet as she spoke to Birdie, who only glared up at her with a fierce gaze.

Reluctantly, Birdie shrugged her hand off and nodded her head once. The Pink Shirt Girl didn't seem that offended by the gesture, just simply quirked an amused brow and smirked, before nodding her head to the side.

Birdie followed, eyes scouring the inside of the home. She liked the furniture, and the colours that seemed to clash together. She almost bumped into the woman before she looked up at her. Pink Shirt Girl smiled once more and lowered her hand, "I'm Maggie. What's your name?"

Birdie stared at the hand, then back at Pink Shirt Girl's face—or, rather, Maggie's. She had a pretty name, she wouldn't lie, but for now, until Birdie could trust her, she'd just be Pink Shirt Girl.

Birdie didn't answer her question. Only stared at her hand and face, waiting for Pink Shirt Girl to give up with her persistence to talk to her.

She didn't, though. She waited for about one whole minute before Birdie started to lose patience. And she lost patience fast.

Slowly, she held her jacket sleeve and pulled it up. There, on her wrist, sat the scribbled words, Birdie. Messy and handwritten with a bold marker that stuck the words together—it was clear a child had written it in a hurry, which made it even more difficult to read.

Birdie held her wrist up to Pink Shirt Girl for her to read, which the woman took a few seconds to fully process the writing. She furrowed her eyebrows and glanced at Birdie. "Does it say... Birdie?"

Sighing, Birdie nodded and let her wrist drop back to her side, tugging on the sleeve so she was sure it was pulled down. This was one person that now knew her name. Even Rick didn't know, but perhaps she'll tell him later, when he got a bit more better.

Pink Shirt Girl finally led Birdie to the bathroom and told her that she'd be waiting outside, closing the door after the seven-year-old girl for her respective privacy.

Stepping into the bathroom, Birdie felt relieved. She hadn't seen a bathroom in ages, and the woods weren't exactly ideal ones. Unconsciously, her hands signed Thank you, as she walked toward the sink and turned it on.

The water was cold as it hit her dirt-ridden face. If her dad was here right now, he would be groaning about the feeling of the water, and ranting about how amazing freedom was, when all they had was freedom. Though, it wasn't the type that felt safe or good anymore.

Birdie tried not to think about her missing father as she splashed her face with water, and washed her hands with soap. Soap, God, she never thought she'd be so happy to be clean.

When she was younger, she was the messiest out of her siblings. She would always play in the mud when it rained, and always raced through their backyard in sunny days until she was full of sweat that she couldn't handle it herself. And then her mother would have to forcefully make her shower.

Birdie's hands paused and her lip quivered at the thought of her. She hated feeling this way. It felt unfair how she had to miss them because they were gone. Gone, gone, gone. It wasn't fair that she was standing here and they weren't. It wasn't fair that she got to eat, drink, and live—when they couldn't.

It just wasn't fair.

She splashed the water against her face harshly, sliding her hands down her face as she gritted her teeth and let out a frustrated groan, stomping her foot on the ground that it echoed through the bathroom. Her teeth grit so harshly that they might've almost just broken in half.

She heaved, her eyes glaring back at herself in the mirror. Big, brown, and once innocent. Now, big, brown, and guilty. Big, brown, and alive. Big, brown, and unfair.

"Birdie?"

Pink Shirt Girl's muffled voice reached her ears, and Birdie looked back at the mirror one more time before she looked away, heading towards the door and prying it open. She looked up at Pink Shirt Girl, eyes fiercer than ever.

"You alright?" She asked, head tilted. Birdie didn't answer. Pink Shirt Girl sighed through her nose—probably preparing herself to handle a grumpy child like the one in front of her. "You want food?"

At that suggestion, Birdie perked up, her expression softening and her eyebrows lifting. Pink Shirt Girl chuckled at her reaction, nodding her head for her to follow.

With no hesitation, Birdie followed Maggie through the house and, eventually, into the kitchen. She went over to the counter, grabbing a loaf of bread and an apple. "Sandwich or apple cinnamon bites with peanut butter?" She held out the options for her.

Birdie eyed the two, her mind whirring with thoughts. Her mother used to make her apple cinnamon bites when she was younger, and so, in honour of her, Birdie thought she would need the cinnamon apples, so she tapped the red fruit.

Maggie nodded. "Alright, ya go sit down and I'll prepare it for ya, yeah?"

Birdie nodded, turning around and settling into the chair of the dinner table. She watched as Maggie cut her apples into small pieces and sprinkled cinnamon on top of them, before she smeared some peanut butter on the plate and placed them atop it.

Birdie had never tried them with peanut butter before, and usually hated trying new things, but the way Maggie presented it made it look like it was delicious. So the second it was set on the table, Birdie was devouring it.

She scraped some peanut butter on the apple slice and bit into it. The second the taste entered her mouth, she decided that this was her new favorite snack.

Maggie chuckled as she watched her, "Slow down, will ya?" She asked. Birdie glanced at her, her cheeks tingling in embarrassment. She hadn't realised Maggie was even there.

She didn't slow down, though. It wasn't in her nature to listen to people. In fact, she ate even faster—apple slice after apple slice after apple slice—until there was a glass of water placed in front of her and she chugged that, too.

Upon observation, Birdie was clearly hungry.

Maggie stayed silent after that, sitting beside her as she ate. She seemed to really like the peanut butter, because she almost licked it off the plate when she smeared the apple slices into it.

𓅃

The day seemed to zip past like lighting after that, and Birdie found herself sitting outside, on the porch, as the morning sun beat down on her.

Today, she wokenup with not-very-pleasant news. Otis had been killed while he'd been on the run with Shane. And now they were preparing for his funeral—one with no body, which was incredibly upsetting and sad.

She didn't want to participate in the funeral, but since she was guest, so she sort of had to in respect. She didn't even know Otis, barely saw him or spoke to him.

Her squinted eyes looked around the farm, chin resting on her crossed arms, before her eyes settled on a figure. Shane. But with a buzzcut? How did he manage to get even more scarier?

Birdie scrunched her face up in discomfort at the sight of him, but when he turned to look at her and caught her staring, his expression changed to a furrowed brow and an angry expression, so she turned away hurriedly, looking up at the sky in hopes of him not noticing that she'd been staring at him in discontent.

She looked down almost immediately due to the blinding sun, scrunching her face up and itching her eyes.

The sound of a motorcycle whirring loudly made Birdie look up, seeing everyone pause with collecting rocks as well. She stood up to walk over, and in the distance, she could see a man on a motorcycle, followed by a car, and behind that car was an RV.

A big, huge, large RV.

Birdie quirked her eyebrows up in surprise at the vehicle. She'd been in a van before—just not that big. How many people did Rick have?

She stood by Maggie as the people parked in front of Hershel's house. The front door opened to reveal the others, alongside Rick's wife—Lori, who'd also come yesterday in courtesy of her son, with the help of Maggie and her horse.

A man that looked similar to Hershel stepped forward, a concerned expression on his face. "How is he?" He asked.

"He'll pull through," Lori said, nodding with a light smile on her face. "Thanks to Hershel and his people."

"And Shane," Rick added, his voice tired and groggy, but relieved. "We'd have lost Carl if not for him."

The man stepped forward and embraced Rick in a hug, while another woman who had short hair went to embrace Lori in a hug of her own.

As Rick caught his group up with the recent events, Birdie decided to walk away, uninterested in hearing any of it. She looked at her feet, watching her boots sink into the grass gracefully with each step.

A nudge to her shoulder caught her attention. She looked up to see Daryl, her eyes immediately narrowing. His did, too, "Where you goin'? Not gonna run away, are ya?"

Birdie tilted her head, watching him for a second, before signing None of your fuckin' business. She wanted to test her theory if Daryl knew sign language or not, but when he furrowed his eyebrows and frowned, her theory was proven—he did not know.

She resisted a smug smile.

"What?" He asked, harsh confusion lacing his voice. Birdie rolled her eyes and continued walking forward. She heard Daryl scoff behind her before saying, "Don't stray too far or I'm gonna let that walker eat ya next time."

She glanced at him with an angry expression, teeth gritted, before continuing her walk. Birdie headed to where Otis' funeral was being held—a bunch of rocks had been collected in the wheelbarrow. She spotted one on the ground, picked it up, and threw it inside.

There it was. Her respect. Could that mean she didn't have to attend now?

It wasn't that she didn't want to—well, she didn't—she just really hated funerals that this would only make her feel more worse than good. So she'd rather stay out of the way for this one, to avoid any strong, negative feelings.

However, when she saw the saddened expression Maggie had as she walked over with everyone else, she decided that she would stay, even though, it would make her extremely uncomfortable.

They all stood in a circle, Hershel in the centre with a bible. The rocks were piled up to form a mountain; Otis' grave, the one with no body. The thought made her stomach churn—it was sickening to think about saying goodbye to someone when they weren't even there.

Hershel took a shaky, deep breath, and started the eulogy. "Blessed be God, father of our Lord Jesus Christ. Praise be to him for the gift of our brother Otis, for his span of years, for his abundance of character. Otis, who gave his life to save a child's, now more than ever, our more precious asset. We thank you, God, for the peace he enjoys in your embrace. He died as he lived, in grace." As Hershel finished, he turned around, "Shane, will you speak for Otis?"

Shane hesitated, looking over to the side as he let out a light scoff. "I'm not good at it," he said. "I'm sorry."

Birdie furrowed her eyebrows and frowned. Not good at it? Who was not good at giving someone prosperity after they'd just lost their loved ones? Not to mention, there was something odd about him—not the usual odd, but a more hostile odd, like he was hiding something. Like how she stole a Reese's pieces when she wasn't allowed to from her sister.

Patricia, Otis' late wife, spoke with a heavy voice full of pain and desperation. "You were the last one with him. You shared his final moments. Please. I need to hear," she said. "I need to know his death had meaning."

Shane stared at her for a few seconds, eyes wide, red rimmed at the edges. Birdie couldn't put her finger on what was wrong—but then again, it wasn't like she was a detective. Or a robot. Most of the time, she was wrong, so this was probably nothing.

"Okay," he then whispered, running a hand through his hair. "We were about done. Almost outta ammo. We were done to pistols by then. I was limping, it was bad. Ankle all swollen up. We gotta save the boy, that's what he said. He gave me his backpack, shoved me ahead. Run, he said. I'll take the rear. I'll cover you. And when I looked back..." he trailed off, walking over to put a stone in the pile.

Birdie watched him as he limped forward. To her, the story didn't add up. It sounded more like a monologue than an actual reality that happened. Her sister always used to talk about the books she read or the plays she participated in, and they both sounded different.

When Sandy would explain something of reality, she would explain it relatively, but when she would talk about plays, she would always include their manners, speeches, and the way they quoted certain things.

And as Shane spoke, it sounded more like monologue than life.

𓅃

The group, along with Birdie, huddled around a car with a map in front of them. More bad news—there was a missing girl in Rick's group that they haven't found yet, and it'd been a day or two since she was seen.

"This is perfect," Rick said. "We can finally get this thing organised. We'll grid the whole area, start searching in teams."

Birdie looked up at him, her face between her crossed arms. She could barely stand straight to reach the hood, so she had to stand on the tips of her toes and lean into the car to be able see.

"Not you. Not today," Hershel shook his head. "You gave three units of blood. You wouldn't be hiking five minutes in this heat before passing out." Then he turned to Shane. "And your ankle... push it now, you'll be laid up a month, no good to anybody."

"Guess it's just me," Daryl's gruff voice concluded, crossbow across his shoulder. He leaned forward to press a finger to the map, "I'm gonna head back ta the creek, work my way from there."

"I can still be useful," Shane piped in from beside him. "I'll drive up to the interstate, see if Sophia wandered back."

"Alright, tomorrow then," Rick said, a conflation to his voice. "We'll start doing this right."

"Yeah, but that means we can't have our people out there with just knives," Shane said. "They need the gun training we've been promising them."

Birdie perked up at that. She'd always wanted to know how to use a gun. She'd pestered her dad endlessly with it, but he had always refused, telling her how dangerous it was—even as the world fell, he kept his word.

She was definitely going to make Rick teach her how to use a gun.

However, Hershel hesitated at that statement. "I'd prefer you not carrying guns on my property. We've managed so far without turning this into an armed camp," he said, his voice quiet, respectful, but firm.

"All due respect, you get a crowd of those things wandering in here..." Shane chuckled, a small smirk on his face.

Birdie turned her head away from him, digging her face deeper into her arms in discomfort. She missed the flicker of anger in his eyes when he saw her do that.

"Look," Rick spoke. "We're guests here. This is your property and we will respect that," he sent Shane a look before setting his gun down on the table firmly, surrendering his lethal weapon.

Shane pressed his lips to a line, looking away, and slammed his gun onto the table—as if the action physically pained him.

"First things first. Set camp, find Sophia," Rick instructed.

Shane clicked his teeth, "I hate to be the one's to ask, but somebody's got to. What happens if we don't find her and she's bit? I think we should all be clear on how to handle that."

Everyone was quiet for a moment.

Birdie was aware of the consequences that came with someone being missing, but Shane should've had a bit of hope. This was one of their group that they were talking about, and she'd just went missing.

Rick took a deep breath, looking down as he adjusted his position, obviously uncomfortable with the idea itself. "You do what has to be done."

"And her mother?" Maggie chimed in. "What do you tell her?"

"The truth."

Birdie saw Hershel shake his head at Maggie, as if telling her to not care too much about them. She stepped away, her shoes scuffing against the grass while she backed away.

Birdie thought about Daryl going on the run tomorrow. She wanted go, too, to find her dad's car. She'd been worried all night, wondering if he came back or not, or if somebody else found it. She wasn't sure they were going to let her go with him, or if he was going to let her go with him, but all she wanted to do was check.

She might even get her knife back.

That only wanted to make her go more. That knife had been her sister's, it even had SJ, which stood for Sandy Jackson, scratched on the handle. She looked around camp, her eyes catching Daryl standing to the side with his crossbow.

Running up to him, Birdie tapped his arm. When he turned around, his brow rose up. "What d'you want?"

Birdie stood there, looking at him, wracking her head on how to communicate with him. She couldn't talk, obviously, and he didn't know sign language. She never knew someone could be useful, yet so useless to her at the same time.

"What, kid?" He asked, impatience visible in his face.

Birdie glared up at him, not liking his tone. She then pointed a finger at herself, then at the woods, then put two fingers up and slid them between the air. You, me, woods, me, you.

Daryl furrowed his eyebrows. "Wait a minute. Ya wanna go with?" He scoffed. "Hell nah, kid."

Birdie furrowed her eyebrows, almost matching his expression, before stomping her foot, getting his attention once more. Her fisted hands pumped up, holding them as she swerved them side to side. Car.

But Daryl didn't get that. "What?"

Birdie huffed, looking around, before spotting the car she was standing alongside the group with earlier. She pointed at it.

"The car?" He asked—she nodded. "What 'bout it?"

She pointed to herself.

"Ya have a car?"

She nodded.

"Where?"

She pointed to the woods.

He turned to where she was pointing at. It would be a risk to take a kid out there with him, especially since he'd found her almost getting mauled by a walker, and now she wanted to go out again to find her car?

She seemed persistent, though, but he'd have to talk to Rick about it. Before Daryl walked away, he patted her on the shoulder two times. "We'll see, kid."

Birdie huffed as she watched him walk away.

•

AUTHOR'S NOTE.
really not my best chapter i don't like this at all, but i wanted to get something out before updating my other book. i hope you enjoyed anyhow!! <3

also not birdie trusting maggie the second she mentioned food 😭😭😭