Beth's brows draw together, and her gaze slips away from the man. Instead, she's looking out at the snow beyond their little group: clean, fresh-looking, without the stumbling tracks of walkers. No grey-skinned faces anywhere around them, for that matter. She can't remember the last time she stood outside and saw only the living in all directions.

"You don't have walkers here," she says, some wonder creeping into the words. After years of having them at her back, she'd assumed their twisted forms were out there among the trees. Which is proof in itself that her tracking needs work, but she's not sure she can trust anyone here to ask. "You--you really haven't heard of them. At all?"