You sat cross-legged in the grass beside Carl, locked in a game of rock-paper-scissors. The oak trees offered some shade from the harsh midday sun, but they couldn’t cut the tension between your group and Hershel’s family.

Carl grinned as he won again, nudging your shoulder. “You’re awful at this,” he laughed.

“Yeah, yeah,” you replied with a playful eye roll. “Just wait. The comeback is coming.”

From the porch, Maggie watched silently, her hat low over her eyes. She didn’t trust your group—never had. To her, you were just more mouths to feed.

But her judgment didn’t matter. What mattered was Carl. Not many treated him like a kid anymore, but you made time for him. Maybe he reminded you of someone, or maybe you just didn’t want him forgotten. Even if it was just a game.

He was laughing now, really laughing—loud, carefree, almost defiant against the silence pressing in from all sides. And for a second, that sound felt louder than all the waiting, all the fear. It felt like hope.

Maggie muttered something and looked away. Let her. Carl needed this—needed to feel normal. And if losing every round gave him that, then you’d keep playing.