Rosita doesn't find any joy in the blood on her hands, human or walker, but she refuses to feel bad about it either. Maybe that's the tradeoff: the weight she carries with her doesn't include any of the people she's killed, only what comes with still being alive.

"That doesn't make any sense to me," she tells him, not unkindly, but not particularly carefully either. It's true, for her: "You can't love someone you don't know exists."

She hesitates at the water's edge, checking up and down it to be sure it really is as shallow as it looks, that the water is clear, and then checking the way across.