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The thought struck him one night after leaving Tommy’s, as he was keeping watch over their campsite.
Joel hadn’t been a father in over twenty years.
It jerked him out of his half-doze, almost made him drop the revolver in his hand. He glanced over at Ellie, curled up in a shabby wool blanket, her hair loose and falling over her face. She was sound asleep.
Now that he thought about it, sitting up straighter against the tree at his back, adjusting his grip on his gun, he hadn’t been a father for most of his life. Twelve years raising Sarah seemed like a long time -- enough time to redefine himself, to look at himself as a father. He still did, even if he had nothing to show for it now.
He drew his knees up to his chest and slung his off-arm over them, looking again at Ellie. Her lashes fluttered in her sleep, and her mouth moved with unspoken words. He reached out and pushed her hair behind her ear, feeling again, as he did just before they left Jackson, that something was swelling in his chest, overwhelming and strange and familiar. He didn’t dare put a name to it.
I sure as hell ain’t your dad.
But all the same, he tucked the blanket higher around her neck, then watched as she rubbed her cheek against it and rolled onto her back.
Another thought occurred to him, one he hadn’t had in decades, one he wouldn’t voice for months yet, as he rested his chin on his arm. He pictured Ellie:
Ellie with the stock of a rifle pressed against her shoulder, eyes determined as she aimed. Ellie hopping on the backs of infected, stabbing them over and over again, even as they reached for his neck. Ellie’s eyes shining as she told him jokes.
Ellie.
Baby girl.
Even in the dark, he could see her chest move up and down and she breathed. Alive and well.
My girl.