Daryl is spent after another long, fruitless day of searching for Rick. All he wants is to sleep, to not think about anything for just a few hours. But then he picks up on a trail of prints leading back to his makeshift camp. They’re human tracks, not a walker’s, and certainly not an animal’s. Just great, he thinks. Add that to the list of problems he has to deal with.

He calls Dog to heel as he raises his crossbow, moving silently, cautiously in pursuit of whatever’s waiting for him back home. That’s when he sees you, rummaging through his things like it's a damn garage sale.

“Drop the stuff,” Daryl calls to you, his voice gruffer than usual from the lack of interaction. His crossbow is trained on your head. Dog barks from Daryl's side for emphasis.