my tears ricochet

Chapter Two

Ivy almost looked sweet sitting at the table in some clothes borrowed from Maggie and Beth. Lori had disappeared with Glenn back to the traffic snarl to pick through some of the clothes they had passed over previous, hoping to cobble together some belongings to set her up with.

Daryl leaned against the doorframe and watched her fidget with her empty plate and fork. Hershel was in the kitchen tucking away a casserole dish back into the fridge. She'd lit into it before he could even sit it down and it had probably been a good thing to start her off on a small portion. A hunger like that could have her choking everything right back up in half an hour if they weren't careful in easing her into it.

She was quiet now, that they weren't fending off the stares and grievances of an entire group right at the edge of the campsite. Carol had thought for a moment she was Sophia and her disappointment had melted into the same bitter rage she directed at Rick when her daughter first went missing, sending Ivy startling backwards and looking for easy escape.

It wasn't her fault that he had come back with the wrong girl. Daryl hadn't liked the expression on her face, the blend of guilt and fear. Shane had only compounded it, looking her up and down as if calculating the cost of keeping her.

Everyone had been bursting with questions and it had been Hershel who had dragged them into the house, prodding her upstairs for a shower while he set out the kitchen for a meal. She had been wonderstruck by the idea of a shower and he remembered the CDC, everyone scrambling for a turn with the free flowing hot water.

Ivy hadn't been comfortable with any of the men at the site but didn't seem to mind Hershel as much. Daryl wasn't sure if it was his age or the simple fact that he was the one to put down the plate of hot food in front of her, but he watched Hershel like a hawk as Ivy sat hunched over the table, her ankles crossed.

"So how long have you been out there for?" Hershel asked her, coming down with a little white box.

Ivy shrugged, hands fidgeting. "Long enough, I guess."

"Were you part of the convey into the city? There are a few traffic snarls around the way. Lots of folks took to the woods to get off the roads."

Her gaze jumped from object to object, nervously examining the room with a familiar wariness. "My dad kept us holed up back home when everything went down."

Daryl frowned at the unexpected honesty. It surprised him, the way the words came out so easily. He had to pin her to the wall to get a name out of her and it had been as easy as prying teeth.

"Were you two separated?"

Ivy shook her head, tapping the fork against the plate. "No."

"Well," Hershel said, sighing. There wasn't much anyone could say to that. Everyone knew someone who had died now. Her father was probably dead or bit, wandering the countryside. "Now that you're cleaned up and have had a chance for some food, maybe we can take a look at some of those cuts."

This was the part that Daryl had stuck around for. Ivy took one look at the white box and went to bolt. He came over and kept her from standing, sliding down into the chair beside her in one fluid movement. "You've torn your feet up. Let the man take a look before you get infected."

Ivy made a face at him but Daryl ignored her, pulling her arm across the table towards Hershel, who looked unimpressed at the offering of scraped knuckles and torn up palms. "Were you fighting a losing battle with a rose bush?"

She scoffed with some good nature, allowing Hershel to disinfect the cuts. Ivy stayed quiet, waiting out the examination with some patience before he went to check her feet. That had her flinching back into Daryl's solid arm, tense and frozen with fear. "You're doing good," Hershel said to her, slowly his movements so she could track his hands. "This is almost over."

Ivy shook her head mutely, struggling to get air in her lungs. Daryl shushed her the way he would a panicking horse, placing his hand on the back of her neck. Merle had done this hundreds of times, holding his down from when the fear threatened to devour him alive. "Those boots of yours didn't do you any favours."

"They were my mom's," she whispered, eyes bright with something close to tears. "I didn't have anything else."

He had been there to watch her pull off those hiking boots and see her bare feet covered in sores and dried blood. She hadn't even worn socks. If he had known the state of her feet, he would have hauled her up and carried her back.

"Well, Lori might find something for you. If not we can dig around the house and see what we can find."

"They're-" she said, before breaking off for a moment. She jerked her foot away in pain as he dabbed alcohol to the wounds. "My mom's. I don't have anything else from her."

Hershel looked like he understood what she was saying and nodded. "I'll make sure they're set aside for you. You don't have to toss them out. Sometimes it's better to hold onto things to remember loved ones."

Ivy looked at Daryl like she was asking for his permission to keep the damned things. There was something insecure in her gaze, the way she let him touch her. She'd been fighting him tooth and nail all the way her and suddenly she was relatively pliant, tolerating it. "How old are you, kid?" He asked her, trying to see past the reflection of himself.

"I'm fourteen," she whispered, as if stunned by the number. "I turned fourteen the day after the reports started coming in of people going crazy on the coast."

Fourteen. He knew that age well. Ivy should be starting high school in September and learning a new class schedule, doing stupid things all teenagers inevitably went on to do. All the girls he grew up shoplifted purple lipsticks from the drugstore like it was a religious tradition of some sort by the time they hit fifteen.

Daryl watched as Hershel finished bandaging her up before leaving her, going back to the door where her dirty hiking boots sat orphaned next to tidy pairs of tennis shoes. He made quick work of striping the laces from the boots, pulling them free and returning to Ivy. "Here," he grunted. He wrapped the pair around her wrist and knotted it securely.  "If you can't carry them, you'll have a piece." 

He could tell that had won him a grudging point of favour in his eyes. The laces would hold tight but wouldn't cut off her circulation at least. When he was younger he had seen Merle do something similar for a buddy who overdosed, taking one of his shoelaces and wearing it around his neck with a damned AA chip as a reminder. 

Merle had fallen off the wagon five more times before giving into it, shutting that old shoelace up in a drawer somewhere, snug like a coffin. Those old chips turned into memories of when Merle had clear eyes and a level head, the demons lurking over his shoulder. 

"What happened to your dad?" He asked, hoping he had earned enough victories to get a bit of honesty. Daryl had been the one to yank her from a closet and brought her somewhere safe to eat and shower. Hershel might have a kind face, but Daryl was the one who had taken enough kicks to the ankle. 

Ivy looked sideways, as if seeking out the door. "He died," she said, like it was a fact. Daryl could sense both truth and a lie tangled up together, knotted tight like that shoelace. 

Hershel snapped that white box shut. "Bruises will take a few days to heal, but you shouldn't go putting those feet into any boots until they're better. We'll make up a bed on the couch for you." 

Daryl was surprised at the offer. Firm lines had been planted to divide Hershel's home from their group and suddenly he was making up plans to host Ivy. Though, he realized, it would keep her away from Shane and the others. The less people around would keep her from bolting back to the woods. 

It was hard enough tracking Sophia, he wasn't sure if he would be able to bring Ivy back if it came to it. If she ran, she would become a ghost. A feral memory of a girl curled up in a closet.