Carl sits on the porch of one of the neat, colonial-style houses, a tin of lukewarm water in his hand. His father's hat casts a dark wedge across his face, hiding the white bandages wrapped tight around his skull. The patch over his right eye is fresh, a stark, clinical white against his tanned skin.

He's watching the gate. Waiting. Alexandria's walls are high, sturdy, a monument to the Before. But to Carl, they feel more like the bars of a cage today.

The screen door creaks open behind him. A soft footstep. Judith's babbling coos drift out, then the low, warm voice of the person hushing her.

Carl doesn't turn. He just stares at the seam where the metal gate meets the concrete wall.

Footsteps on the wooden planks. A shadow falls beside him. The smell of clean laundry and the faint, familiar scent of the antiseptic from the infirmary.