[ Cass's POV ]

The blue swirls of watercolor on the paper hanging on the wall catch my attention, immersing me in its faded depths. I stare at the brushstrokes on the thin paper, noticing how the watercolor ripples the paper, similar to the waves of the ocean depicted in the painting.

My heart aches, knowing exactly why of all things Soph chose to paint the ocean, especially with the slightly teal-ish water and scattered driftwood on the white beach. It was the best part of the only community we had been a part of - even if it was only for a little while.

As I wait with a tinge of impatience, my gaze lingers on the delicate strokes, wondering if she's doing okay here. It's already been a couple of days, and she's been painting.

Which either means she's doing great or falling apart.

I don't have to wait much longer to answer my questions as the door to the small dorm room clicks open, and in walks the seventeen-year-old girl, her eyes downcast, ginger hair pulled back into a loose braid. Closing the door behind her with a click, she turns around, flinching as her brown eyes flit to mine, seeing me perched on her desk chair with a nervous smile.

I know I must look like a wreck, having not had a second to breathe let alone shower. Apparently, it's been a while since the CRM hospital has had a new doctor and they sure are using their new resource as much as possible. This is the first time I've gotten a break and I obviously chose to see my girl before anything else.

"Cass? Oh my god!" Sophia exclaims breathlessly, her shoulder bag forgotten on the carpet with a thud as she rushes towards me, throwing her arms around me desperately before I can even get up from the chair.

Grinning fondly, I return her embrace, a sense of relief washing over me being able to hug her after two days. I don't have to worry about her being bothered by my stale scrubs or knotted hair messily pulled back from my face, she's seen me look much worse.

"Hey, Freckles," I murmur affectionately, my grin widening as I pull her closer, tightening my arms around her back. It's like oxygen can flow into my lungs once again just feeling her with me, knowing that she's alright.

Reluctantly pulling away from our embrace, Sophia leans against the desk, her wide eyes scanning over me, now wearing new scrubs, unlike the faded cat-pattern ones I wore in consignment. They only had old vet scrubs for us to use there.

"What happened? You told me to stay with Rosa but t-they just took me! They didn't-" Her words spill out in a frantic stream, her hands gesturing animatedly as she struggles to find coherence amidst her turmoil.

I grab her hands, gently stopping her anxious rambling. Her gaze meets mine, wide with worry, her breaths quick and uneven.

"I know, I'm sorry. It's my fault," I begin softly, regret heavy in my tone, my stomach twisting. "What happened the other day at the clinic... I shouldn't have taken down the turned patients so quick. It raised suspicions, and they looked into us," I explain gingerly, feeling a pang of dismay as I see the realization dawn on Sophia's face.

"They found out you're not... mine and I couldn't stop them from taking you. I'm so sorry, Soph. But I'm working at the CRM hospital now, earning my place so I can be with you more," I continue, trying to offer some hope, my brows raising as I search her face with a forced smile.

Sophia blinks, absorbing my words with confusion before looking back at me with a tilted head and furrowed brows. "There's a CRM hospital?" she mumbles, her concern momentarily shifting to curiosity, those intelligent brown eyes searching my expression.

A grin tugs at my mouth because that's the part she's concerned about. But after the horrific things we've been through, it doesn't surprise me that she's unphased by this.

I nod, looking down. "Yeah, they needed me for this field trauma a few days ago. Some idiot chopped off his hand trying to escape. I'm guessing he's somehow important, at least to Okafor," I mutter, shaking my head at the situation. I still don't get it. He's just some guy in a consignment uniform- what makes him so important? The patient still hasn't woken up yet, but I make a mental note to check up on him when I get back just in case he has.

Sophia's brows knit together, her eyes widening, her mouth parting with surprise. "There's someone else who wants to escape?" she asks with amazement, her voice smartly hushed as she crosses her arms over her green tank top, watching me with interest.

"Emphasis on 'tried.'" I breathe with slightly raised eyebrows, eliciting a smirk from the teen.

I smile wider back at the girl for a minute, feeling more alive than I have in the past 48 hours. It's as if she's a shot of caffeine, bringing me back to life better than any morning coffee could. Reminding myself of the inconsiderate nature of time, I spare a glance at the face of my new CRM-grade watch, my heart sinking when I see where the two hands are pointing. 

"Shit, I need to head out. I'm expected back in ten minutes but I promise to visit you whenever I can, alright?" I assure Sophia softly, rising from my seat as she pushes away from the desk, nodding in understanding, her eyes reflecting a slight sadness that makes my heart twist.

As I grasp her pinky in mine making a small smile tug at her lips, her eyes softening. 

Our thing.

It's been our thing since the first time on that disappointingly deserted highway when I made that first promise to her that I am determined to keep to this day, even if it kills me. 

"We'll find a way out, just like I promised," I begin, watching as Sophia's throat bobs with a hesitant swallow, her agreement clear in the nod of her head. "You'll be eighteen in four months and they can't hold you here after that. No matter what, we'll figure it out. I'll hopefully be a citizen by then and before we know it, we'll be free," I declare with unwavering determination, squeezing her pinky tightly in reassurance.

Sophia exhales slowly, her gaze dropping to our intertwined fingers before meeting mine once more, a glimmer of resolve shining in her honey-brown eyes.

"Just you and me, right?"

"Just you and me, Freckles. Always."

≪ ◦ ❖ ◦ ≫

[ Rick's POV - present ]

What wakes me up first is a searing pain that tears through my senses, yanking me from the first good night of sleep I've had in years. Excruciating and unrelenting pain.

Before my heavy eyelids reluctantly open, my groan echoes in the room, each breath feeling like a struggle. As consciousness wrestles its way back to me, I force my eyes open, ignoring my bleak surroundings, my focus shifting to the cause of my pain.

My left hand.

Or rather, the lack thereof.

In its place lies a bandaged stump, throbbing with an agony that threatens to engulf me whole. I look at it for a moment, a sickening realization washing over me in waves.

The woods. The walkers. The swing of my axe. The thud of the blunt metal against my flesh. 

My hand.

With a cringe, I reluctantly raise what remains of my limb, my brow furrowing in confusion as I grapple with the sensation of pain in a hand that no longer is attached to my body. With a frustrated grunt, I let it fall back onto the sterile sheets, my gaze shifting to the bedside table at my right.

The surroundings that greet me confirm my suspicions that I'm in a stark and sterile hospital room, triggering a wave of déjà vu back to that day a lifetime ago. The day that changed my life. 

For the worse or better, I haven't decided yet.

But it doesn't take long to realize my life hasn't changed much, given by the triple circle symbol painted on the wall across me, branded on the tray neatly arranged on the table, and even the water pitcher placed within reach.

Water.

With my trembling right hand, I grab the pitcher, clumsily pouring some into the plastic cup they give me before chugging it desperately, some of the water spilling around my chin.

A heavy exhale of satisfaction escapes me as I set the empty cup aside, the parched desert of my mouth now quenched. I don't know how long I've been out, but damn that water was good.

Just as I'm pouring a second cup, the door to my room clicks open, and I look up, nearly sloshing water all over myself. Because in walks an startingly beautiful woman in dark teal scrubs, her dark copper hair tied up haphazardly with some strands falling around her face, fully engrossed in the chart she's reading.

My heart stutters involuntarily, the plastic cup still dripping in my grip as I find myself momentarily forgetting the pain in my nonexistent hand. She sighs softly, scanning the paper in her hands, her gaze lifting to meet mine with a slight flinch, her eyes widening in surprise.

"Oh! You're... awake," she murmurs, her voice smooth, the sound causing me to swallow thickly as I nod, setting down the overly full cup of water.

"How are you feeling, Mr. Grimes?" she asks calmly, slipping seamlessly into a professional demeanor as she approaches the bed, clicking her pen expectantly.

I clear my throat, my brows knit tightly together as I meet her gaze, her features etched with concentration as she studies my monitors.

"Fine, just... some pain," I grit out, the discomfort evident in my voice. Her expression softens with understanding as she assesses my condition, her gaze briefly lingering on mine before shifting away.

"...explains the high bpm," she murmurs to herself, jotting down notes on the chart swiftly. Watching, I notice how illegible her scrawled handwriting is, feeling bad for whoever has to decipher her notes. When my eyes dart up to her face, my stomach wrenches at the strange pull at my chest as she chews on her bottom lip with concentration.

I avert my gaze, l trying to work through the unfamiliar feeling sending my heart fluttering and nerves tingling under my skin. A feeling I haven't felt in years.

Not sure if it's the pain raising my heart rate, but yeah, let's go with that.

"I'm sorry- who are you?" I ask abruptly, causing the woman to pause in her note-taking, her green eyes flitting to mine, darting around my face momentarily.

"Right, you probably don't remember. I'm Dr. Adams, your surgeon. The one who fixed that hack job you call an amputation," she informs me, one of her eyebrows arching with a disapproving look, but I can't help a flicker of slight amusement at her appraisal of my amputation.

The amputation which only happened because I was trying to escape this hell hole. A hell hole I quickly remind myself that this woman, no matter the strange effect she has had on me in the past three minutes, is a part of.

Especially working here, which I'm guessing is some sort of CRM infirmary, she must be high-up given that she's a damn surgeon. 

I nod, clearing my throat. "Right," I breathe, clenching my jaw as she leans in closer to place a pulse-ox on my pointer finger. I purposefully pull my gaze away from her lightly freckled nose and cheeks, focusing instead on the blank wall across from me. Much less distracting.

"Where do you feel the pain?" Dr. Adams asks me, setting down my hand to allow the device to collect my blood oxygen levels.

"My... hand," I grit out, my focus deliberately fixed on the cracks in the concrete wall, determined to ignore the distraction of the attractive woman in my periphery.

I try and fail not to feel a flicker of frustrating embarrassment as the doctor pauses, her gaze lingering on me from the corner of her eye.

"The hand that's..."

"Gone. I know, it's ridiculous," I mutter bitterly, breaking the staring contest with the brick wall to glance down at the stump wrapped in white gauze, a surge of disgust rising within me. The pain radiating from it gnarls and twists the disgust, blossoming into a dark monster that grips my spine, reminding me that it was all for nothing.

I maimed myself to get back to my kids only to immediately fail. It's fucking pathetic. Five years and I've gotten nowhere, only losing my dignity and now my left hand. 

"That's not ridiculous. It's normal, actually," Dr. Adams mutters, the unexpected reassurance catching me off guard, breaking me out of my thoughts. I watch as she moves away, grabbing something from the counter on the far wall before returning to me. "I had a feeling," she murmurs, pulling over the tray table that lays across my bed.

Furrowing my brows in bewilderment, I watch as she grabs what looks to be a strange mirror-like box, with black glue securing the four differing sizes of rectangles together, creating a box with an opening at the end. "What are.."

"Can I grab your arms?" Dr. Adams interrupts, her request making me turn to look at her, my chest tightening with apprehension as I nod in response.

Gently, she grasps both of my forearms before carefully placing them on the table laid across my lap, side by side. As she moves my palm so it's facedown on the table, I can't help but fixate on the stark contrast between my intact hand and the pitiful stump on the other.

A sudden wave of excruciating pain shoots through my missing left hand, causing me to grimace involuntarily.

"Alright, just bear with me," Dr. Adams says reassuringly, her movements deliberate as she positions the makeshift box over my stump. The mirror box thing covers my left forearm, leaving only the reflection of my right hand visible.

Nearly immediately, the fierce and unbelievable pain in my left hand is alleviated, leaving my chest shuddering with insane relief, my brows raising in astonishment. I feel like I can breathe again without the severe weight of pain bearing on me, leaving my skin tingling with amazement and utter relief. 

"H-How?" I stutter lamely, turning to see Dr. Adams beaming back at me.

My throat constricts momentarily at the sight of her smile, her green eyes crinkled at the edges proudly.

"It's called phantom limb pain. Common in recent amputation patients. Your neurons become disoriented after the loss of the limb or in your case hand, and when your brain sees it's missing, it responds with pain signals to the parts of your brain that control the receptors in the missing limb," Dr. Adams explains, her tone gentle yet matter-of-fact as she observes my hands on the table, her head tilted to the side.

"A friend helped me make this mirror box for you. It tricks the brain into thinking the reflection is your hand, and the pain stops," Adams definitely oversimplifies for me as she observes my reaction, seemingly slightly pitiful, making me grit my teeth slightly in embarrassment. "PLP normally goes away with time, but until then, we can use Nat's box."

I nod in appreciation, my gaze returning to the mirror box with newfound gratitude.

"It helped- a lot, thank you," I express, meeting her gaze to see a soft smile tug at the corners of her mouth. There's a fleeting moment of something in her eyes before it quickly vanishes.

The doctor clears her throat, her expression hardening and demeanor shifting as she looks at me again, seeming more serious. "They wanted me to remind you that you can't escape here. While you're not handcuffed, the hospital is heavily guarded. And in your state, it wouldn't be a good idea for you to try to escape. For anyone involved," Dr. Adams recites, her mouth tight as she finishes reminding me of the reality of my imprisonment.

How could I ever fucking forget?

My jaw clenches and I nod, casting my gaze downward, the fleeting joy in my chest immediately being trampled.

Something buzzes, and I glance up to see Dr. Adams grabbing her pager from the waistband of her scrubs, sighing tiredly as she reads it. She looks... exhausted. 

Reminded of who she's sided with, I attempt to suppress my concern about her goddamn tiredness as she meets my gaze. 

She's with them, I can't forget that.

I'm alone here.

"Well, Grimes, this is all for today. Elective surgery requires my presence," she states sarcastically with a sigh, not looking too thrilled to have to do it as she secures the pager back on her waist, exposing a sliver of her abdomen that I quickly avert my eyes from. "I'll let the nurse on duty know you're awake. She's the best and if you need anything, I'm sure she'll be more than happy to help you," Dr. Adams explains with a slight smirk, rounding the bed to remove the pulse ox.

Steeling myself through the confusing feelings I haven't felt in years, I simply look at her as she fixes up the cords of the monitors. Finally done and with a deep inhale, Dr. Adams turns back to me, those green irises meeting mine.

"Unless there's a problem with recovery, I'll see you again in a month for physical therapy," Dr. Adams tells me, stirring a pang of disappointment through my chest at the idea of not seeing her. Before I quickly brush off the ridiculous thought. 

The door clicks open and a nurse in a lighter shade of scrubs walks in, smiling broadly. Like Dr. Adams, she has her hair up, but her dark brown hair is much less chaotic.

"Kay, they're calling me to OR 2, you got him?" Dr. Adams asks her, turning and walking away from me, making the nurse make brief eye contact with me, a small smile on her lips.

"I got him," she assures Dr. Adams as they stand face to face, confusion fluttering through me at the looks sent between them. Kay seems a little too pleased while Dr. Adams is fighting a smirk as she rolls her eyes playfully.

Dr. Adams whispers something I don't catch, making a smirk grow on Kay's face before Dr. Adams heads out. The messy and exhausted surgeon throws one last glance over her shoulder before turning and swiftly exiting, leaving me staring at the wooden door for a moment too long. 

≪ ◦ ❖ ◦ ≫

[ Carl's POV ]

Exhaling slowly, I tilt my neck to the side, feeling the satisfying crack before I begin my climb. I briefly look up at the 15-foot rippling sheets of rusted metal, identifying my foot-holds and ledges for my hands. 

Quickly glancing over my shoulder at my sleeping community basking in the full-moon light, I check for any prying eyes that might catch me escaping. Satisfied that I remain unnoticed, I turn and pull myself up the rusted support beam, gripping the cold metal and forcing my body upward with determined strength.

Damn. This was a lot easier when I was fourteen and weighed one hundred pounds soaking wet. 

After carefully scaling the wall, I lower myself down to the other side, stifling a grunt as the impact sends pain shooting through my feet and up my shins. Crouching down, I stay frozen for a second, quietly assessing the run-down street just outside our walls, checking for any movement. 

With a quick nod and a small smile of disbelief at the success I've had so far, I stealthily navigate through the tall grass and abandoned remnants of the former burned neighborhood, cautiously weaving my way past decaying cars and dilapidated houses.

Clutching Dad's colt python in my hands just in case I come across a walker or worse, I press forward until I reach the shack where he once stashed a different gun inside an empty blender. There, parked in the shadows, awaits a red Corolla, 

my ticket to reuniting with him.

Inside the beaten-down car, amidst the chipping paint and worn upholstery, lie roughly five of the largest containers of gasoline I could scavenge, two sacks brimming with carefully hoarded food scraps gathered over months to avoid depleting our pantry, and my personal bag of essentials.

Slipping into the driver's seat and slamming the door shut, a surge of relief washes over me as I toss my hat onto the vacant passenger seat. Remembering the nuisance that my long hair is, I snatch a rubber band and deftly pull it back into a loose bun, keeping the irritating wavy strands away from my face.

Twisting the key in the ignition, I draw in a slow, steadying breath.

I'm really doing it.

I'm going to find him. 

Placing my hand on the passenger seat headrest, I look over my shoulder as I reverse a bit too fast, narrowly avoiding a crash with a nearby tree that prompts an involuntary curse and an abrupt slam on the brakes. 

Oops.

Cringing at the close call, I shift the car into drive and steer onto the road, heading North to New Jersey. Specifically, Bridgers Terminal. That's where the ship was from- the ship where I found Dad's boots and an iPhone with both me and Judith carved on the glass screen with a few Japanese symbols.

The phone is sitting snugly in my left pocket, and his boots are on my feet, only slightly too big for me.  

Both serve as reminders that I was right. This whole time believing in what no one else did wasn't for nothing. 

He's alive.

After five years of having everyone tell me that he was dead, of having to tell Judith that he sacrificed himself to save us, of having to become an adult without him, after all of that - I'm going to find him.

Maggie refused when I first brought up the idea of going after him, telling me I was too young and had to let go of him. That I needed to move on. 

Fuck moving on. 

Dad raised me. He didn't hesitate to put himself in harm's way time and time again to ensure my safety and well-being, why shouldn't I do the same for him? 

I'm not his little boy anymore, needing him to come and save me. I've grown into an adult in his absence and I'll be damned if I let anyone stop me from reuniting with him.

Especially now that I'm nearly 19, I'm more than capable. 

Despite only one headlight working, the added brights provide enough light for me to cautiously navigate the road, scanning for any lurking dangers. Slowly but steadily, I press onward, following Aaron's map that I may have stolen, to avoid the dangerous roads infested with walkers or encroaching rival groups.

The initial stretch of the drive is uneventful. I needed to swerve only once because an idiot walker fell off a nearby cliff and splattered on the road, but besides that, it was fine. My driving has improved, thanks to Michonne helping me. 

I just didn't tell her I was training so I could go behind her and everyone else's backs to do the one thing they all thought they talked me out of.

A pang of guilt twists in my gut for lying to my best friend. But she can't know. She'll just try to stop me. Hopefully, when she reads my letter she'll understand.

Either way, I know she won't come after me, for all the reasons she tried to get me to stay. 

As I merge onto the lesser-known back highway, the engine emits a faint protest, but I coax it to a steady 70 mph, activating cruise control to ease the strain. I relax slightly, my skin tingling with slight amazement that I got away with it. 

A tentative smile pulls at my mouth as think about seeing Dad again. 

After so long... the features of his face have slowly become more meddled, blurring in my mind until they've become slightly indistinct. The ache in my chest intensifies at the thought.

Luckily, despite his fading face, I can still hear his voice clear as day, echoing in my mind as clearly as if he were sitting beside me. I can still hear him calling my name, and feel the weight of his hand on my shoulder as he gave me one of those trademark raised eyebrows looks, urging me to stay out of harm's way. 

Which, most of the time, I didn't listen to. 

I didn't get it back then, but I do now. I was just a kid, despite how much I argued against it, thinking I was much more grown-up than I ever was. But watching Judith get older, especially now as she's just hit a stubborn seven, I understand it. The frustration of trying to tell a child to do something to keep them safe, only for them to fight against it.

I trust Daryl to look after her while I'm gone. He's good at it, I mean, he's practically the only adult she chooses to listen to and the sole father figure she actually knows.

Still, I can't shake the nagging feeling that she wants a mother figure too. Someone to provide the nurturing guidance and affection that she lacks, despite the large family we have.

Carol is distant, which is fair. She doesn't exactly have the best track record when it comes to kids. And Maggie, consumed by taking care of Hershel Jr., struggles to spare much time for anything else let alone another kid. 

The other women in the family are there for her, like Michonne, but never fully in the way a mother should. My heart aches that Judith never got to meet Mom. 

A small smile pulls on my face at her memory. She would've loved Judith. 

Who knows, maybe Daryl will finally settle down with someone, and that someone can give Judith what my mom wasn't able to. 

As I continue along the desolate highway, roughly three hours later, I opt to pull over at an abandoned log-cabin-themed inn nestled off the roadside. Carefully scanning the surrounding area, I squint through the dusty windows for any signs of lurking walkers or potential threats.

Peering past the veil of dust coating my window and through the bleak moonlight, my gaze travels the desolate parking lot, tracing the outlines of dilapidated vehicles and monitoring the darkened windows of the inn for any signs of activity.

Satisfied that the area appears devoid of living people or people brought back from the dead, a sense of relief washes over me.

Still, I do another lap just to be careful, really not wanting to waste any bullets this early on. 

"Looks clear to me," an infuriatingly familiar voice chirps from beside me, making me flinch severely, my heart rate immediately skyrocketing. My stomach throttles as I swing around to see Judith peeking out from the footwell of the backseat with a nervous smile.

Not noticing I'm pressing down on the accelerator, my jaw hangs open as a surge of icy dread grips me, freezing me down to the bone. My little sister looks up at me her smile turning sheepish at my stunned expression, as panic fully engulfs me. 

"What the hell are you doing here?!" I begin to demand wildly, my voice choked with visceral anger, but my words are abruptly silenced by the deafening crash of metal colliding with wood.

The world lurches violently as our car slams into the solid trunk of a nearby tree. My body is thrown forward, a sickening collision with the steering wheel sending a blinding surge of pain radiating through my skull, plunging me into a disorienting haze of darkness.

≪ ◦ ❖ ◦ ≫

A/N: just a reminder that when we're in first person, we can have unreliable narrators! For example, Carl's inner monologue about the group's reaction to Rick's 'death' may or may not be reliable...

Hoped you guys liked it!!