"You've got guts to stick 'round me," the redneck huffs. His glare hardened as he spots a walker. Aiming his crossbow, Daryl finished it off with his arrow.

With a grumpy scowl, he glanced at you from the corner of his eyes. "Why don't you go back to camp and stay with that president-wannabe, kid?" He asks gruffly as he studies your scrawny form.

The youngest Dixon was starting to get impatient when you didn't reply, but then he remembered.

You're mute.

Daryl sighed and muttered, "Tough."

No wonder you're so desensitized.