The group had made it to Hershel's farm, battered and bruised but intact. More importantly, they were whole in a way they hadn't dared hope for. Sophia was alive. Otis was alive. And Max—quiet, observant, always one step ahead—had changed everything.
Rick leaned against the fence, watching Carl sleep through the window. Lori sat beside the boy, brushing his hair back from his forehead. Carl stirred, blinking at the soft morning light. "Mom... where's Sophia?"
"She's okay, baby," Lori answered.
"She's really okay?" he asked.
Rick nodded from the door. "Yeah. She's okay. Sleeping in the room next to you."
Carl smiled, eyes closing again. Rick gave Max a glance through the cracked door, an unspoken thank-you in the tilt of his head. Max didn't respond, but the hint of a nod confirmed he'd heard it.
Outside, the mood was complicated. Otis was a quiet shadow, lingering on the edges of the group. Shane kept shooting glances at him like he couldn't quite believe he hadn't died. Everyone else gave Otis a wide berth—not out of anger, but disbelief. The man who should've died had come back, and he walked with a limp and a guilt that made his eyes too heavy to meet.
The funeral that day wasn't for Otis. It was for Jimmy's uncle—bitten while scavenging. The group hadn't even known him that well, but a funeral meant closure, and closure was a rare commodity. Hershel spoke gently, Bible in hand, about faith and sacrifice. Shane stared into the dirt. Otis stared at his boots. Max watched the people instead of the preacher.
When Shane was asked to speak, he hesitated. "Man died saving a kid," he finally said. "That's all you need to know. That's everything."
Back at the farmhouse, the search effort was shifting. Now that Sophia was safe, they could focus on fortifying. Hershel, still skeptical, was reluctant to allow permanent guests.
"Once your boy's better," Hershel told Rick, "you'll need to move on."
Rick, hands on his hips, tried to reason with him. "We've lost too much out there. We just need time."
"Time's fine. Just not forever."
Max stood on the porch, silent. He was piecing together the next few steps in his head. Hershel wasn't unreasonable. Just stubborn. That could be worked with.
Meanwhile, Glenn was trying to hold onto his cool as Maggie handed him the saddle reins.
"You're coming with me to town," she said casually. "Need supplies."
"Sure," he stammered. "Town. Right. I mean, of course."
Maggie quirked an eyebrow. "Relax. You're not being drafted."
Behind them, Lori handed Glenn a folded note. "Can you find these for me? And, uh... don't read it."
"Absolutely," Glenn said, already reading the note.
Andrea and Shane were in the barn, unloading gear. She was less than thrilled about surrendering her gun. Hershel's farm had rules—no firearms on the property. Shane, true to form, was getting twitchy about it.
"Guy's a vet," Shane muttered to Max later. "Thinks that makes him God."
"He's got a point," Max said. "The farm's been untouched. He's doing something right."
Shane glared at him. "You think that's luck, or something else?"
Max shrugged. "Either way, it's working. For now."
Out near the well, Dale and T-Dog were checking water levels when Dale spotted something wrong. A faint odor. A slight discoloration.
"Stop!" he barked, slapping the ladle from T-Dog's hand.
They pried off the well's sealed top, and there it was—a bloated walker, drifting in the water.
"Christ," T-Dog muttered.
"Do not drink from this well," Dale warned. "Ever."
Soon, the whole group was around it, arguing what to do. Shooting the thing would contaminate the water further. Burning it wasn't an option.
Max stepped up. "We lower someone in. Rope. Noose. We pull it out whole."
"I'm not volunteering," Shane said flatly.
Everyone looked at Glenn.
"Why is it always me?" Glenn muttered.
"You're the lightest," Maggie said.
He sighed. "Fine. But I want a raise."
Glenn descended slowly into the well, rope around his waist, noose in hand. Max controlled the winch, knuckles white as he guided the descent. Below, the zombie drifted, jaws snapping lazily at the movement. Glenn looped the rope expertly.
Suddenly, the winch creaked—then jerked. Glenn dropped two feet and screamed. Max threw his weight into the crank, Dale helping him stabilize it. Glenn, dangling inches from death, managed to tighten the loop.
"Pull me up! Pull me up!"
The group heaved. Glenn emerged sweating, panting—but alive. The walker followed, inch by inch, until its waterlogged body caught on the edge.
"Careful!" Dale warned.
But too late—the corpse split at the waist, lower half dropping back in with a splash that sprayed the onlookers.
"Great," Andrea groaned. "Now the whole well's ruined."
Max said nothing, wiping muck from his arm. One more resource lost. Time was not on their side.
That evening, Glenn and Maggie saddled up. The ride to town was quiet until Glenn tried for small talk.
"So, that walker thing back there… crazy, right?"
"You did good," Maggie said.
Glenn flushed. "You think so?"
"You're not just comic relief, you know."
The drugstore was half-collapsed, shelves already looted. They picked through what was left—cough syrup, a few bandages. Glenn found the item from Lori's list: a pregnancy test.
Maggie saw it in his hand and smirked. "That for your girlfriend?"
"No. I mean, I don't—no. It's not like that."
"Not trying to get lucky then?"
Glenn blinked. "Lucky? What? No, I mean—I don't even know if—I mean you're—you're beautiful, and I'm not saying no, just that—"
"Shut up," Maggie said.
And then she kissed him.
The air between them snapped taut. Glenn hesitated for half a second. Then he dropped the test, and they stumbled together into the back aisle, lips colliding.
It was messy and rushed—hands fumbling, backs knocking into shelves. Maggie pushed his jacket off and pulled her own shirt over her head. Glenn gasped as her skin met his. His fingers traced her ribs like he was afraid she might vanish.
"Is this okay?" he asked, voice trembling.
She pulled him closer. "Just don't ruin it."
They didn't speak much after that. The world, for once, faded away—the fear, the hunger, the walkers. For a few minutes, all that mattered was closeness. The clumsy, warm-blooded need to feel alive.
Afterward, they dressed in silence. Glenn couldn't stop smiling. Maggie glanced at him and rolled her eyes.
"One time thing," she warned.
"Sure," Glenn said, grinning like an idiot.
Back at the farm, Lori waited until dark, then slipped into the woods. She unwrapped the pregnancy test and sat against a tree, staring at the moon as she waited. The result came quickly.
Two lines.
Pregnant.
She didn't cry. She didn't smile. She just tucked the test into her jacket and walked back.
Max saw her return and watched the shadow in her eyes deepen. He didn't say anything. Not yet.
Daryl came back from the woods empty-handed but calm. No sign of walkers. No sign of Sophia—because she was safe. He handed Carol a Cherokee Rose.
"They say it grows where mothers cry for lost kids," he muttered.
Carol clutched it to her chest.
"She's gonna love the RV," she whispered.
Back inside, Rick handed Carl his deputy hat.
"You earned it," he said. "You took a bullet. You stood up. That's what a man does."
Carl nodded solemnly.
Rick went into the bedroom. Removed his badge. Undressed slowly. Shirt. Holster. Pants. It felt like shedding skin—stripping away the last of the old world.
Outside, the wind stirred the cornfields. Somewhere in the distance, a walker moaned. But inside the farmhouse, things were still. Quiet.
Too quiet.
Max stared out the window, jaw clenched. He'd saved lives. Changed events. Given them hope.
But fate has a way of balancing the scale.
And the storm was coming.