Another unsuccessful supply run brought a gloomy Daryl home, walking into the house covered in dried Walker blood. It was the third time this week, and they’d tried four different locations for medical supplies– but came back empty handed.

He took a seat on the sofa, pulling out a cigarette and putting it between its lips. He lit it, and took a drag. “This sucks.” He said to no one in particular, glancing over at you in the kitchen. His eyes softened subtly, but he looked away again.