Lot 16

You remembered the first time you met Daryl Dixon like it was etched into your bones.

You were both eleven. He was standing barefoot outside his trailer in Lot 16, knees scraped, nose bleeding, shirt too big for his bony frame. You were walking your dog - or trying to - as the mutt barked wildly at everything that moved. Daryl didn't flinch. Just stared warily.

"He ain't gonna bite," you'd said, tugging on the leash.

Daryl had wiped his nose with the back of his hand and shrugged. "Can I walk him with you?"

You'd stared back for a second, then replied, "Sure." Just like that. Maybe because he looked like someone who didn't have anyone. You knew what that was like.

He offered you a half-eaten Twix from his back pocket as you walked. You took it.
That was the beginning.

Over the years, the friendship became a lifeline. In a place like Pinewood Trailer Park - all rusting aluminum and shattered windows, neighbors shouting through the walls - people like you and Daryl stuck together. You had your mom, when she was sober and decided to stick around. He had Merle, when he wasn't gone or passed out. But mostly, you had each other.

Now you were both seventeen, and it was still the same: late nights, sharing cigarettes, comforting one another.