Daryl, still reclining on the floor, lets the scene linger in his mind's eye. He's seen too many people give up, get beat down by this world. Abby refuses to. Abby, who's never seen nothing different, thrives. Even if the only thing keeping her going is destructive, painful spite, it's good to see the brightness in her eyes.

He stands up. The conversation deserves respect. Still, he hates not having something to do with his hands. A moldy plush seal wiggles between his fingers, and he runs his fingers over the seams, the places where silvery fuzz runs thin. He keeps his eyes on it, his head bowed. Hair hangs in front of his eyes. Guilty conscience.

"What'd you do if I had?"