After months in residence at the prison, Luke was well-known in the infirmary. Though he was never personable enough to make much conversation, various misadventures had landed him in a bed or sitting for stitches more often than he generally liked to think of. A patchwork of scars on his knuckles and knees spoke for a tendency to tumble, and though he'd always managed to get back up again -- so far, anyway -- Luke didn't like any reminder of his mortality. Though he was never without the idea of death, the truth that he'd be dead one day & so would everyone else, he didn't like to acknowledge it. Can't, really.
This is what he was thinking of as he wandered the hall away from April's bed; she'd be out soon, sooner than expected, and he'd eluded losing her for the millionth time. The braver part of Luke believed that they would never be separated again, but any chance -- any moment they came close -- frightened him deep in his heart and bones. For days after these episodes, he wasn't sure what to do with himself or his feelings or his responsibilities. Too many. Sometimes Luke wondered if he was feeling an echo, some strange malaise from another universe -- one where April did die, or where he'd never found her at all, or where she'd never woken up after coming back from the fight.
These thoughts were distracting enough that he nearly didn't notice the child running through the corridor. Her little lightness passed him by, giggling, and for at least three steps he continued walking as if there had been nothing there at all.
Marigold?
Then he remembered what was at the end of the corridor, and paused. Not for babies. The sound of Marigold's shoes against the floor -- younger children always had that clumsy, determined gait -- assured him that he hadn't imagined her, and when he turned to look she was a little too far down the hall for comfort. Where the fuck is your mommy? He thought, half-amused. You don't belong here.
Luke's relationship with George meant that he'd spent some time with Leah's daughter, of course. There was a responsibility here that was undeniable, apart from Marigold's status as one of his favorite children in the compound. (Girlish and sharp and intelligent. Easy to amuse with songs.)
"Hey," he called, jogging after the tiny blonde. "Where you going, huh? Marigold. Hey."