Daryl lets out a little groan. While he notes Miles' pause, he doesn't think much of it-- plenty of people don't hunt, and he doesn't know what kind of life this guy had before he was tossed into this war. Maybe he was one of the rich pricks who never had to bother. It'd make sense, in a way; it's probably why he thinks everything is his business.

"'Could stretch a deer for days," he mutters. Even among soldiers, you could make jerky, use the pelt as blankets, use the antlers for all sorts of things, but small game? "Better like rabbit."