The next morning, Lee left with Pete and Nick to hunt, leaving Micah and Clementine behind.
Micah stepped outside, stretching in the pale morning light. Clementine followed without being told—by now, she knew the routine.
"Alright, kid," Micah said, turning to face her. "Let's see if you've gotten any less shit at this."
Clementine rolled her eyes but squared up, hand hovering near her holstered Glock.
"Draw on me," Micah ordered.
No hesitation this time. She went for it—fast, but not fast enough.
Micah's revolver was already leveled at her forehead before her barrel even cleared leather.
"You're dead," he said with a smirk.
Clementine groaned, frustrated, but Micah just laughed, spinning his gun in a flashy flourish before holstering it.
"Can you teach me how to do that?" she asked, eyes gleaming.
Micah snorted. "Maybe. If you promise not to hog the damn couch again."
"No promises," she shot back.
He rolled his eyes but showed her anyway, demonstrating the smooth wrist flick that sent the revolver spinning. Clementine tried—and nearly dropped her gun.
"Christ," Micah muttered. "You handle a gun like a drunk farmer."
She stuck her tongue out at him.
After a breakfast of cold kidney beans, the two sat on the cabin's porch, watching the trees sway in the breeze.
Micah lit a cigarette, exhaling smoke through his nose. "I ever tell you 'bout the time I robbed a bank with nothing but a pocketknife and a bad attitude?"
Clementine perked up. "No."
"Hmph. Back when I was 'bout twenty-five..."
He launched into the tale—how he'd strolled into a small-town bank, no gun, just a blade and a grin. How he'd sweet-talked the teller into opening the vault, then knocked out the guard with the butt of his own pistol. How he'd left, full of cash, bullets whizzing past his head.
Clementine listened, rapt, interrupting with questions.
"Did you kill anyone?"
"Not that time."
"What happened to the money?"
"Spent it on whiskey and trouble."
She grinned. "Sounds like you."
Micah smirked. "Damn right."
Their conversation was cut short when Luke and Alvin stepped out of the cabin, rifles in hand.
"They've been gone too long," Luke said, frowning. "We're gonna go look for 'em."
Alvin nodded. "You two stay put."
Micah waved a dismissive hand. "Yeah, yeah. Lee can handle himself."
As the two men disappeared into the trees, Clementine glanced at Micah.
"You think they're okay?"
"Doubt anything in these woods scares Lee more than me," Micah said, standing. "Come on. Let's see if these idiots left anything edible in the pantry."
Clementine followed, but not before catching a glimpse of Sarah watching them from her upstairs window, wide-eyed.
———
The afternoon sun filtered weakly through the cabin's grimy windows as Micah lounged at the kitchen table, a cigarette dangling from his lips. Smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling, drawing a sharp glare from Rebecca and a disapproving sigh from Carlos.
"You mind not filling the house with that crap?" Rebecca snapped, rubbing her swollen belly.
Micah exhaled a slow, deliberate stream of smoke in her direction. "You gonna do somethin' about it?"
Carlos scowled. "It's bad for Sarah's lungs."
"Ain't my kid," Micah said flatly. He stubbed the cigarette out directly on the tabletop, leaving a charred mark in the wood. Then, without warning, he slammed his palm down—BANG!—making Clementine flinch.
"What?" she yelped, nearly dropping her pencil.
"You know how to play poker?" Micah asked, ignoring the irritated mutters from the others.
Clementine blinked. "No?"
"Tch. Figured." He reached into his duffel bag and pulled out a worn deck of cards, the edges frayed from years of use. "Pay attention. This'll save your life one day."
He shuffled the deck with practiced ease, the cards snapping crisply between his fingers. Clementine watched, fascinated, as he dealt two hands.
"Five-card draw. Simple shit." He flipped his cards up—a pair of eights. "Pairs, two pairs, three of a kind, straight, flush, full house, four of a kind, straight flush. In that order. Got it?"
Clementine nodded, studying her own cards (a measly seven and jack, nothing matching).
"Now, here's the fun part," Micah said, leaning in. "You ain't just playin' the cards. You're playin' the idiot across from you." He tapped his temple. "You watch. You listen. You lie."
He demonstrated—bluffing with a garbage hand, then cleaning up when Clementine hesitantly folded.
"See? You gotta sell it. Make 'em think you've got God's own hand when you've got nothin'."
Clementine chewed her lip. "What if they call your bluff?"
Micah grinned. "Then you shoot 'em. But we'll work up to that."
After a few practice rounds, Micah nodded approvingly. "Alright, kid. You're still trash, but you're less trash. Time to make it interesting."
He reached into his belt and pulled out five bullets, lining them up in front of him. "These're your lifeline. Lose 'em, and you're fucked."
Clementine paled. "We're betting ammo?"
"Damn right. Nothin' sharpens the mind like losin' what keeps you alive."
The first round was brutal. Clementine lost two bullets immediately, her tells obvious—she bit her lip when she bluffed, tapped the table when she had a good hand. Micah took them without mercy.
"You're bleedin' out, kid," he taunted, stacking his winnings.
But by the third round, she started adapting. She mirrored his tells—the slight twitch of his fingers when he was confident, the way his smirk widened when he was bluffing. She called him on a weak hand and raked in three bullets.
Micah's eyebrows rose. "Well, well. Maybe there's hope for you yet."
Rebecca, watching from the stove, muttered, "Teaching a child to gamble with bullets. Real classy."
Micah ignored her, dealing the next hand. "Remember—every bullet's a breath. Lose too many, and you stop breathin'."
Clementine nodded, her eyes locked on her cards.