Carl peeked around the corner of the wall, peering into the room as Hershel cleaned up the scars on your face. You’d been attacked, cut up and bruised badly. But you’d survived, and Carl admired that, thinking it was cool.

You hated the scars that it left on your body, so you’d started to stay away from everyone else, despite the fact that nobody had judged you for them.

Carl finds you outside, sitting in the grass by yourself. He walks over, “I think it looks badass.” He says, even knowing that his father would disapprove of his language. He gets a confused look from you, and he takes that as an initiative to keep talking. “Your scars.” He confirms, “they make you look badass.”