"I just want people to be okay," she says after a moment of searching, of grasping; it's such a childish statement, such a naive wish, but she aches with how much she wants that.

"I'm a little good at a lot of things, but I can't do what the people I learned those things from can do. I can't train people to fight like you can. I can't move people forward like Abraham could, can't make them feel safe. I can't bring Maggie peace, or be Hershel's father. We don't need switchblade. We need a set of weapons."

She shakes her head, looks down at where her grip is white-knuckled on the chairback. "Doesn't matter."