"Maybe we could have rabbit pasta," she says, biting down on a smile. Mrs. Niedermeyer brought up homemade pasta to her yesterday, and she'd been so dismayed to hear Beth had only ever eaten it out of boxes and cans. "Carol could probably cook it."
Carol, after all, can cook anything, and she actually seems to enjoy it--if not quite as much as she's pretending to lately. There's something unsettling about the way she can slide right back into being somebody else, someone Beth barely recognizes. It's who she was, or part of who she was, and Beth knows enough about her dead husband to see why, but it's like looking at a stranger when she moves sometimes.
But maybe that's a good thing, if they don't know how much Carol knows. If there's a catch to all this generosity, maybe it's good that they're stronger than they seem. Beth's borrowed the idea a little, sitting mouse-quiet through her interview with Deanna, wishing she could have had a shower before somebody decided to videotape her. She doesn't want to lie to them, make herself look weaker than she is--she's never going to pretend she isn't strong, not if she can help it--but she also doesn't want Deanna's attention to fall too heavily on her.
A moment or two after Daryl asks how she is, Beth shrugs, her attention on the rabbit carcass. "I guess so. Are you?"
She's not sure the answer's yeah, I'm good. She's also not sure Daryl plans on telling her if it isn't.
The huff that gets has less humor in it than usual. Rabbit pasta, rabbit casserole. Some goddamn too-normal, too fancy thing, it figures. He hasn't done more than provide and clean the game, and even so he's not sure most of the people here are comfortable handling it. They'll adjust. Maybe it's just how it seems to him.
"She can."
If he's honest, it's worst with her-- Carol always used to get him in a way no one else did; she was one of the first to treat him like he might be worth something, her and Rick both, and without that... Much as he'd like to think he flips the bird at authority and bucks expectations, he knows it's not that simple. When people thought he was nothing, well, he was, if only out of spite. Since the world ended he's grown out of that.
Now, it feels too much like it used to. Like who he is has nothing to do with him at all.
But the last thing he should do is lay all that on her. (Old habits die hard. Better to bottle it up than let your weakness show; he's not as stoic as he was, but he's doing what he can.)
Setting the hide aside, he stops to meet her eyes for a long moment before he shrugs.
Beth cocks her head, studying the way he shrugs off the joke. He seems unhappy--but of course he does. When has Daryl ever lived in a neighborhood like this one? She, at least, had friends whose houses had neat little yards and white-picked fences. Daryl probably sneered at the whole idea.
And now he's sitting here, covered in blood, on one of those perfect lawns, daring everyone else to complain. He wants everyone to know he's pissed that he's here.
Well, she knows--everyone probably does--but she doesn't know what to do about it. The worst part is, she feels like she should know, or at least have an idea or two. But knowing who Daryl is and where he comes from doesn't tell her how he can learn to be happy around here.
She watches him, and he watches her. The way he stares at her, it's like he's trying to say something he can't force out in words. Eventually, she realizes the only thing she can do is tell him something true and hope he'll do the same. Every time they've said things that have actually mattered, that's how it's been.
"It's better than the hospital," she says, her gaze dropping again. Better than the place he and the rest of them were, too--she knows that much from what little Maggie's said about it, and from how hollow her expression turned when it came up. There's no way in hell she's bringing it up if he doesn't, though. "But it still doesn't seem real. It's like Disney World."
Being happy here seems impossible. He wants it; this place, it could be good for them. They need it as much as Alexandria needs them. Maybe it's just a matter of time. It's not like there's any proof the strangers in their midst are trustworthy. But it's uneven, the way they've taken to some and not others. He's sick of proving himself.
Granted, he's probably not helping matters, sitting out here sulking and snarling and making a mess of the lawn.
Grunting his agreement, he glances away. He knows what she means by that, or thinks he does-- it's too pristine, it seems fake-- but she's not wrong. People like him don't belong in Disney World, either.
"It's better," he mutters, finally, more forcefully than necessary. Maybe he can make himself believe it.
"Yeah." Beth's brows furrow down. She's not entirely sure what to make of his answer, the silence or the echo that follows it. Unhappy, yeah, but beyond that...there's something wrong, and she doesn't quite know what it is. "Anything's better than where we've been. Right?"
Well, not anything, but Alexandria is. It could be like the prison used to be, she's sure, if they can only figure out how to be the kind of people who lived there.
It's quiet, and then she is, when she speaks again. He's not going to say it, and maybe she shouldn't, either, but it feels like everything that happened since the funeral home is hanging as thick between them as smoke in a closed-up room. "Maggie told me about Terminus. Not much, just..." Enough.
Where they've been is the problem, maybe. Being here makes him miss the prison, which makes him feel stubborn and stupid and soft. Like he let himself be tamed, and if he did then that's the problem right there. Got too comfortable and now Beth's lost her dad, they've lost their home, everything. Fuck, but he does miss it-- hates himself for that, too. But she's heard enough of that already.
If he's gonna make it here he's got to leave that in the broken walls of the prison, the ashes of that still.
And she's got a point-- which pisses him off even more, honestly, but only because there's nothing that doesn't. It's a cold and fearful kind of anger, it just makes his eyes go hollow when he looks back at her, a little too quick. He tries to keep that under wraps; she doesn't need more than Maggie said. Could do with less, like as not.
"They ain't bad folks," he reasons eventually, soft, looking away. Down at the blood-streaked mess of his hands, the tattoo on his forearm; back at the house. It feels like he can't stay here-- funny, when he thinks about it; he'd stopped Carol from running, and now all he can think of is doing the same. They're not bad people. He's just not sure he can be the kind of person who lives here. He's sure as shit he doesn't want to be anyone but who he is.
"'S all right," he says, with a certainty he doesn't feel at all. He sets the rabbit aside, picks up the next.
You shouldn't've said that. You weren't going to say it. She knew better, and she did it anyway--and it feels like hitting him, almost seeing the way his gaze shifts back to her. It doesn't matter why it slipped out. It just matters what she does about it.
Which is, at least for now, nodding in agreement. The people here, they all mean well. Maybe that's part of the problem--it's easy to be frustrated but hard not to feel bad about it.
And then it's taking him up on the change of subject he offers. If he wants to talk about something else, they'll talk about something else.
"They're...okay." It's hard to know what to say, exactly. Daryl's not going to judge her for finding the whole thing bizarre. But even with everyone keeping out of the way of Daryl's bloody little patch of grass, her voice might carry. She shouldn't complain--not out here. "It's weird, mostly. Suddenly I'm in charge of Carl." Carl, who kept the prison running when Rick was out, has to raise his hand to talk. She doubts it's going to last long--he doesn't seem happy sitting in there.
"Actually," she adds, pulling up a blade of grass and idly peeling it into ribbons, "I thought maybe you could help me with something. If you have time, I mean."
As usual Daryl would be happiest not talking about anything ever, but it's not like that's doing him any favors, so they might as well change the topic if there's something better, something other than ruminating on misery and feeling shitty and selfish about it.
While she talks he keeps at his task, a sharp knife and a lifetime experience making quick work of cleaning the rodents. At least he's useful, even if there's little thanks for it. Christ, it's like these people still expect to be able to run down to the store and get a plastic-wrapped steak whenever they want it. He huffs obligingly but genuinely at the image of Carl in her class-- no doubt seething at the injustice of it, and not wrongly-- and glances back, setting the last cleaned carcass aside.
"What d'you need?"
Of course he'll help, if he can. That's who he is. At least who he wants to be.
The way he doesn't hesitate, just asks for the details, seems like a good sign. He's still him, even if this isn't where he wants to be. It takes more than suburbia to stop him.
"I thought maybe, next time you go out..." She feels shy suddenly, asking, and she doesn't know why. Because it's kind of a pain in the ass to have to do it, maybe, and because being in here, everything that exists outside the walls has started to feel so distant. Everything, including the places the two of them have gone together, the ways they talked and listened--maybe it's that. "Maybe you could bring back some edible plants, if you saw any. Or ones that're good for medicine. Oh, and maybe a mirror and a piece of glass."
That's probably the thing that'll make her reasoning clearest. Beth shrugs, reaching out to touch one of the bloody hides Daryl ripped off the rabbits. She showers just about every day now--and she hasn't had blood on her since Aaron brought them here in the first place. "These kids...all they know about surviving is, you can't go outside. I want to show them what to do when they have to."
Every goddamn thing here is so clean. He's still stubbornly refusing to live up to that, his hair's still a wreck and most of his clothes stained and in tatters. Being contrary is one little thing he can control, maybe. It just seems-- pointless, all of it. Scrubbing counters and sweeping porches when outside the walls, things are still falling to pieces.
He looks at her a long moment, thoughtful, thinking back on the prison again.
"Watch it," he says in a tone that might be teasing if it wasn't too bitter for that. "They'll get mad at you for scarin' 'em."
Which isn't a no, not by a long shot. It's a good idea, and maybe Beth-- young and friendly enough to pass for civilized, something not all of them are-- can convince the good clean people of Alexandria that it's worth learning how to get dirty.
If they're gonna survive-- and for all his inward bitching about these people and their shitty attitudes, he does want them to-- they're gonna have to learn. Might as well start young.
She snorts, idly rubbing a few drops of rabbit blood between her finger and thumb until they turn sticky from it. It's probably gross, but gross is relative after a while; go back a month or two, and she was ready to hunt and flay her own meat. Some of what qualifies as gross here makes her homesick, these days.
You can take the girl out of the walker-infected country, but you can't take the walker-infected country out of the girl. Maybe.
"I think they're already scared," she admits. They might not know they are--but someday, they might. Places aren't any more immortal than people. "I want to make them braver."
Christ, the girl knows how to ruin a self-indulgent sulk with her good ideas and her giving a shit about people. Thanks, Beth.
With an affirmative grunt he nods-- decisively, as though he hadn't already agreed, as though he wouldn't do any damn thing in his power for her, for any of the family. But it's a good idea, he can't argue with it. And honestly it makes him feel a little better to know she's worrying, too, about how soft they are here-- that she's not getting soft herself.
A smile lights her face--all of it, not just the tight curl of her lips that somebody like Deanna usually sees--and for a second, she's tempted to hug him. If he was anybody else in their group, she wouldn't hesitate. (Well. Maybe not Rosita. But otherwise...) But it's Daryl, so she just grins, knocking her shoulder against his.
"Thanks." He'll know what to look for, and she'll see what the garage-school's mildewed encyclopedias (from 1983! older than Maggie!) say about whatever he finds. She nods at the pile of rabbit guts and fur. "Want some help cleaning up?"
Beth's one of a handful of people who could get away with it if she tried. But it suits him just fine that she doesn't; it means just as much. He doesn't quite match her smile but his expression softens a bit.
"You wanna take the meat in?" he offers, nodding at the cleaned carcasses. They're bloody but neater than the rest of this mess. He's wondering if it's worth trying to cure the furs, or if they oughta just toss the whole thing into the compost.
(Stretched and scraped hides propped on the lawn would probably annoy the shit outta the postapocalyptic homeowner's association. That might be reason enough.)
"Sure." She reaches for it without a second thought, careful to hold it far enough away from her that she won't end up with blood on her clothes. A white cardigan actually has a chance of staying white around here--not that she has one right now, but it's the principle of the thing.
As she stands up, she glances at the rest of the mess. They can probably use some of it, right? You can eat chicken hearts and livers--maybe rabbits are the same way. And the skins are all in big pieces still. "Maybe we could make something with the fur. For when it gets cold."
Maybe if he'd have a little forethought, he'd have brought something to wrap them up. He's not getting soft, but he's falling back into the habit of thinking singularly. Like he can't rely on anyone but himself, and that's maybe just as bad.
"Might could cure 'em," he agrees, looking critically at the bloody skins. Not in bad condition, though one's got a hole punched through it. Still. Usable. Waste not, want not, right?
"Yeah." Her eyes light up. That'd be perfect--her own thought had been a vague one, of mittens for whoever's hands would fit, but that's nowhere near as good. There's more than enough fur for Judith's feet, no guesswork required. "She's getting to the age where she actually needs shoes."
She'll be running all over the place, getting into everything, sooner or later. No matter how much of a pain it ends up being, Beth can't wait. Everything new she gets to learn and explore is proof that they're doing something right. Judith's getting to live like a kid her age should, not like a fugitive.
She shifts the rabbit carcasses to one hand, leaving a bloody ring around the doorknob as she opens the front door. Whatever--she'll clean it off later. Hurrying toward the sink, she asks, "How do you cure 'em?"
The toddler-- too big to call a baby, now, he's not sure if there's another stage in there-- she's maybe the one real bright spot, the saving grace to this place. He could live out the rest of his days on the road, without showers and parties and fresh clothes, but Judith deserves more. If this place can give it to her, then they'll keep it safe. Somehow.
And if he left, it's why he'd leave alone.
"Salt," he muses, leaving the bloody bundle on the lawn (since it's not like anyone'll steal it, trailing after so he can answer, hesitating a little at the doorway. It's not that he worries about tracking in the mud, he just can't feel comfortable in these goddamn houses. Fuck it, though. He leans on the kitchen doorframe, lets himself childishly revel in the thought of the mark it'll leave on the pristine paint.
"Does the job. Ain't as soft as chemicals... Never did much of that kinda shit."
Beth turns on the tap and rinses off the rabbits, mostly because the novelty of water they can run whenever they want still hasn't gotten old. After so much time out in the woods, she doesn't give a damn if a few blades of grass find their way onto the meat--but she likes being able to wash the blood off everything, her hands included, and pat the carcasses dry with paper towels Aaron scavenged. It's been a long time since she's been able to do that without a second thought.
"The fur'll be soft," she points out, leaning back against the counter. Judith'll never know the difference anyway. For better or worse (and Beth, for one, has never been able to decide), she'll probably always be happy with rough leather. "I can ask Olivia for some salt, if you want."
And maybe she can make a conversation out of it next time she sees her students. Guess what Mister Dixon's doing-- She's been trying to work their group into discussions where she can, anyplace it might help the kids get to know them.
Somehow the offer takes him by surprise. It shouldn't, because of course that's the logical thing to do, but on his own-- well, he'd just wait until he could scare some up. Maybe stuff the skins in a freezer, since they can do that. Miracles never fuckin' end.
"Sure," he murmurs, not sure what else to say, somehow rebelling at the thought of asking for anything. Maybe just because of the chance they'll say no. But it's for a good cause, and they're all in this together, all that shit.
"I dunno." She doesn't know Olivia too well--not yet, anyway--and some of the people around here look at them like they might be a little bit feral. Not everybody, though, and if Beth's the one asking, maybe it'll be easier to get a yes. "But maybe. She seems nice."
Beth wipes her hands on her jeans unconsciously, leaving a faint streak of blood on one leg, and looks over at the rabbits. "I should probably ask for some vegetables for dinner anyway. Just regular salt, right?"
It'd suck if it turned out he needed something special.
Probably he'll have to look for more, but that's not so bad. Ain't like bulk salt is something people would think to take, probably; even picked-through shops might have a couple boxes left.
Besides, the worst that could happen is it won't work.
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Carol, after all, can cook anything, and she actually seems to enjoy it--if not quite as much as she's pretending to lately. There's something unsettling about the way she can slide right back into being somebody else, someone Beth barely recognizes. It's who she was, or part of who she was, and Beth knows enough about her dead husband to see why, but it's like looking at a stranger when she moves sometimes.
But maybe that's a good thing, if they don't know how much Carol knows. If there's a catch to all this generosity, maybe it's good that they're stronger than they seem. Beth's borrowed the idea a little, sitting mouse-quiet through her interview with Deanna, wishing she could have had a shower before somebody decided to videotape her. She doesn't want to lie to them, make herself look weaker than she is--she's never going to pretend she isn't strong, not if she can help it--but she also doesn't want Deanna's attention to fall too heavily on her.
A moment or two after Daryl asks how she is, Beth shrugs, her attention on the rabbit carcass. "I guess so. Are you?"
She's not sure the answer's yeah, I'm good. She's also not sure Daryl plans on telling her if it isn't.
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"She can."
If he's honest, it's worst with her-- Carol always used to get him in a way no one else did; she was one of the first to treat him like he might be worth something, her and Rick both, and without that... Much as he'd like to think he flips the bird at authority and bucks expectations, he knows it's not that simple. When people thought he was nothing, well, he was, if only out of spite. Since the world ended he's grown out of that.
Now, it feels too much like it used to. Like who he is has nothing to do with him at all.
But the last thing he should do is lay all that on her. (Old habits die hard. Better to bottle it up than let your weakness show; he's not as stoic as he was, but he's doing what he can.)
Setting the hide aside, he stops to meet her eyes for a long moment before he shrugs.
"I'll get by."
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And now he's sitting here, covered in blood, on one of those perfect lawns, daring everyone else to complain. He wants everyone to know he's pissed that he's here.
Well, she knows--everyone probably does--but she doesn't know what to do about it. The worst part is, she feels like she should know, or at least have an idea or two. But knowing who Daryl is and where he comes from doesn't tell her how he can learn to be happy around here.
She watches him, and he watches her. The way he stares at her, it's like he's trying to say something he can't force out in words. Eventually, she realizes the only thing she can do is tell him something true and hope he'll do the same. Every time they've said things that have actually mattered, that's how it's been.
"It's better than the hospital," she says, her gaze dropping again. Better than the place he and the rest of them were, too--she knows that much from what little Maggie's said about it, and from how hollow her expression turned when it came up. There's no way in hell she's bringing it up if he doesn't, though. "But it still doesn't seem real. It's like Disney World."
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Granted, he's probably not helping matters, sitting out here sulking and snarling and making a mess of the lawn.
Grunting his agreement, he glances away. He knows what she means by that, or thinks he does-- it's too pristine, it seems fake-- but she's not wrong. People like him don't belong in Disney World, either.
"It's better," he mutters, finally, more forcefully than necessary. Maybe he can make himself believe it.
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Well, not anything, but Alexandria is. It could be like the prison used to be, she's sure, if they can only figure out how to be the kind of people who lived there.
It's quiet, and then she is, when she speaks again. He's not going to say it, and maybe she shouldn't, either, but it feels like everything that happened since the funeral home is hanging as thick between them as smoke in a closed-up room. "Maggie told me about Terminus. Not much, just..." Enough.
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If he's gonna make it here he's got to leave that in the broken walls of the prison, the ashes of that still.
And she's got a point-- which pisses him off even more, honestly, but only because there's nothing that doesn't. It's a cold and fearful kind of anger, it just makes his eyes go hollow when he looks back at her, a little too quick. He tries to keep that under wraps; she doesn't need more than Maggie said. Could do with less, like as not.
"They ain't bad folks," he reasons eventually, soft, looking away. Down at the blood-streaked mess of his hands, the tattoo on his forearm; back at the house. It feels like he can't stay here-- funny, when he thinks about it; he'd stopped Carol from running, and now all he can think of is doing the same. They're not bad people. He's just not sure he can be the kind of person who lives here. He's sure as shit he doesn't want to be anyone but who he is.
"'S all right," he says, with a certainty he doesn't feel at all. He sets the rabbit aside, picks up the next.
"How's the kids?"
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Which is, at least for now, nodding in agreement. The people here, they all mean well. Maybe that's part of the problem--it's easy to be frustrated but hard not to feel bad about it.
And then it's taking him up on the change of subject he offers. If he wants to talk about something else, they'll talk about something else.
"They're...okay." It's hard to know what to say, exactly. Daryl's not going to judge her for finding the whole thing bizarre. But even with everyone keeping out of the way of Daryl's bloody little patch of grass, her voice might carry. She shouldn't complain--not out here.
"It's weird, mostly. Suddenly I'm in charge of Carl." Carl, who kept the prison running when Rick was out, has to raise his hand to talk. She doubts it's going to last long--he doesn't seem happy sitting in there.
"Actually," she adds, pulling up a blade of grass and idly peeling it into ribbons, "I thought maybe you could help me with something. If you have time, I mean."
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While she talks he keeps at his task, a sharp knife and a lifetime experience making quick work of cleaning the rodents. At least he's useful, even if there's little thanks for it. Christ, it's like these people still expect to be able to run down to the store and get a plastic-wrapped steak whenever they want it. He huffs obligingly but genuinely at the image of Carl in her class-- no doubt seething at the injustice of it, and not wrongly-- and glances back, setting the last cleaned carcass aside.
"What d'you need?"
Of course he'll help, if he can. That's who he is. At least who he wants to be.
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"I thought maybe, next time you go out..." She feels shy suddenly, asking, and she doesn't know why. Because it's kind of a pain in the ass to have to do it, maybe, and because being in here, everything that exists outside the walls has started to feel so distant. Everything, including the places the two of them have gone together, the ways they talked and listened--maybe it's that. "Maybe you could bring back some edible plants, if you saw any. Or ones that're good for medicine. Oh, and maybe a mirror and a piece of glass."
That's probably the thing that'll make her reasoning clearest. Beth shrugs, reaching out to touch one of the bloody hides Daryl ripped off the rabbits. She showers just about every day now--and she hasn't had blood on her since Aaron brought them here in the first place. "These kids...all they know about surviving is, you can't go outside. I want to show them what to do when they have to."
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He looks at her a long moment, thoughtful, thinking back on the prison again.
"Watch it," he says in a tone that might be teasing if it wasn't too bitter for that. "They'll get mad at you for scarin' 'em."
Which isn't a no, not by a long shot. It's a good idea, and maybe Beth-- young and friendly enough to pass for civilized, something not all of them are-- can convince the good clean people of Alexandria that it's worth learning how to get dirty.
If they're gonna survive-- and for all his inward bitching about these people and their shitty attitudes, he does want them to-- they're gonna have to learn. Might as well start young.
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You can take the girl out of the walker-infected country, but you can't take the walker-infected country out of the girl. Maybe.
"I think they're already scared," she admits. They might not know they are--but someday, they might. Places aren't any more immortal than people. "I want to make them braver."
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With an affirmative grunt he nods-- decisively, as though he hadn't already agreed, as though he wouldn't do any damn thing in his power for her, for any of the family. But it's a good idea, he can't argue with it. And honestly it makes him feel a little better to know she's worrying, too, about how soft they are here-- that she's not getting soft herself.
"I'll find somethin."
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"Thanks." He'll know what to look for, and she'll see what the garage-school's mildewed encyclopedias (from 1983! older than Maggie!) say about whatever he finds. She nods at the pile of rabbit guts and fur. "Want some help cleaning up?"
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"You wanna take the meat in?" he offers, nodding at the cleaned carcasses. They're bloody but neater than the rest of this mess. He's wondering if it's worth trying to cure the furs, or if they oughta just toss the whole thing into the compost.
(Stretched and scraped hides propped on the lawn would probably annoy the shit outta the postapocalyptic homeowner's association. That might be reason enough.)
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As she stands up, she glances at the rest of the mess. They can probably use some of it, right? You can eat chicken hearts and livers--maybe rabbits are the same way. And the skins are all in big pieces still. "Maybe we could make something with the fur. For when it gets cold."
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"Might could cure 'em," he agrees, looking critically at the bloody skins. Not in bad condition, though one's got a hole punched through it. Still. Usable. Waste not, want not, right?
"Pair'f boots for Judith, maybe."
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She'll be running all over the place, getting into everything, sooner or later. No matter how much of a pain it ends up being, Beth can't wait. Everything new she gets to learn and explore is proof that they're doing something right. Judith's getting to live like a kid her age should, not like a fugitive.
She shifts the rabbit carcasses to one hand, leaving a bloody ring around the doorknob as she opens the front door. Whatever--she'll clean it off later. Hurrying toward the sink, she asks, "How do you cure 'em?"
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And if he left, it's why he'd leave alone.
"Salt," he muses, leaving the bloody bundle on the lawn (since it's not like anyone'll steal it, trailing after so he can answer, hesitating a little at the doorway. It's not that he worries about tracking in the mud, he just can't feel comfortable in these goddamn houses. Fuck it, though. He leans on the kitchen doorframe, lets himself childishly revel in the thought of the mark it'll leave on the pristine paint.
"Does the job. Ain't as soft as chemicals... Never did much of that kinda shit."
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"The fur'll be soft," she points out, leaning back against the counter. Judith'll never know the difference anyway. For better or worse (and Beth, for one, has never been able to decide), she'll probably always be happy with rough leather. "I can ask Olivia for some salt, if you want."
And maybe she can make a conversation out of it next time she sees her students. Guess what Mister Dixon's doing-- She's been trying to work their group into discussions where she can, anyplace it might help the kids get to know them.
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"Sure," he murmurs, not sure what else to say, somehow rebelling at the thought of asking for anything. Maybe just because of the chance they'll say no. But it's for a good cause, and they're all in this together, all that shit.
"Think she'd give it?"
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Beth wipes her hands on her jeans unconsciously, leaving a faint streak of blood on one leg, and looks over at the rabbits. "I should probably ask for some vegetables for dinner anyway. Just regular salt, right?"
It'd suck if it turned out he needed something special.
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Probably he'll have to look for more, but that's not so bad. Ain't like bulk salt is something people would think to take, probably; even picked-through shops might have a couple boxes left.
Besides, the worst that could happen is it won't work.