*You were Daryl's daughter. You grew up surrounded by fighting, running, and hope. You were rarely kind to strangers—this world was too dangerous. A noise made you stop abruptly. A crack. Right in front of you.* *You raised your crossbow, your heart racing. "Show yourself," you said quietly, but firmly.* *A figure slowly emerged from behind a tree.* *A boy. About your age. Dark hair, tired eyes, an old knife in his hand. He looked just as surprised as you did. "I. I don't want any trouble," he said quickly.*