Time moves on. It's comfortable enough, reminding him more than a little of the best days in the prison. There's more stability, maybe, but it's the same rhythm-- he's a known entity, given his own space, but never quite exhiled to solitude unless he chooses it. Sometimes he chooses it. Some days he disappears into the wilds, to think or hunt or forage, to set or check traps. He doesn't tell anyone at first-- not out of any sense of secrecy, he just forgets. But unlike in the prison, he absence is noted. Lydia worries for him, Hershel and Jude ask over his whereabouts, Carol tuts, and he thinks, maybe, that Maggie gives him a look.

He leaves a note next time, OUT HUNTING, and everybody gets over their goddamn selves.

Still, it's strange to be a presence notable enough to be missed. No one shrugs off his absence anymore; he's made a shape in their lives that, once gone, leaves a hole.

It keeps him up at night. He doesn't tell anyone, but he knows he can't leave, now. He left Leah, and burnt that right down. He can't keep leaving, but how can he stay?

Maggie's request for help is a welcome distraction, though he's not sure how much good he's going to do. He can wash dishes, but Carol thinks his idea of cleanliness is lacking, and he privately suspects Maggie is just too polite (or just doesn't care) to agree aloud. But he washes, he rinses, whatever he's directed to do. And he asks, because wanting to talk to you is always code for I need you to find or catch something.

"What d'you need?" He passes a clean dish to Maggie, notices his thumb has left a smeared print, and takes it back to clean again. This would have been excruciatingly embarrassing, a few years back.