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Quinn Walsh's world ended long before the dead started walking.
She is born half-gone already, cut from the womb of her mother like a tumor the size of a football, silent and malignant, 3 pounds 9 ounces of limp, dead flesh. Lungs underdeveloped, skin as thin as paper, and not a single sound falling from her blue lips, Quinn's life seems to stop before it has even begun.
(Perhaps it would be better this way.)
But from the steady hands of the finest surgeon in all of Georgia, Quinn is put back together; lungs and heart and hands and teeth, until Victoria Walsh is handed a small, pink bundle and told that her baby is saved. Victoria and Shane know the moment they bring her home that this is not the child they once made. But from ignorance comes bliss, and childhood for Quinn Walsh is made of melted ice cream sundaes and sunlit walks through straw fields, movie nights and late-night football games. A passing glance from anyone and nothing seems wrong, Quinn Walsh is the perfect amalgamation of her parents. Her mother's looks, her father's temper. They are perfect.
