"We bury ours," she offers in return. Fair's fair--if she wants to ask him, she can stand to offer something in answer. And after refusing to trust him (the sword bumps against her knee), she feels like she kind of owes it to him to try to trust him now, just a little bit. "If they aren't, we burn them. We'd never stop digging graves otherwise."

And it seems like a bad idea to put too much sickened flesh into the ground. Everything rots eventually, that's just common sense--but not everything rots like walkers.

"Up there?" she asks, nodding to a place where the trees grow a little thinner.