Cicadas buzzed in the tall grass, and somewhere a horse whinnied, content in the afternoon heat.

A figure stumbled over the ridge, half-carrying something in his arms.

The man was covered in dust and grime, his sheriff's hat askew, the star on his chest catching the light. He moved with a desperation that cut through the lazy hum of the farm.

The screen door of the farmhouse creaked open.

Hershel Greene stepped out, shotgun in hand, squinting against the sun. Behind him, a figure in a soft white dress lingered in the doorway, a book clutched to her chest.