Daryl starts the day feeling slightly groggy, which is strange, but not unheard of. He's been lit this early before. He struggles through the first few hours of dawn, getting breakfast, checking the camp over, avoiding the bathing tent (line's too long), and checking his traps. He's not really paying attention, he's done this thousands, millions of times, when he realizes how woozy he really is.

The trap pulls short, and he fumbles the fine, hard twine he used to set it, and his wrist catches in the snare. It pulls tight, and blood blooms in the line the snare cuts into his caught hand.

Shit. He hasn't screwed up like this since he was a little kid. What was he, twelve? He can almost hear Merle laughing over his shoulder. Daryl swears, and realizes he hasn't brought a knife. How the hell is he going to get himself out of this without making it worse? Shit, shit.

The illness hits camp pretty heavily, and Daryl does his best to avoid it, sneezing and coughing when no one's looking. They haven't got time for anyone to lay down on the job, especially not him. He tries to help out where he can, carrying supplies around and chopping wood for the fire, little, stupid chores that need doing anyway.

It's late in the day when he finally, finally overdoes it. You might catch him retching, groggy-eyed and yellow-faced into the bushes. He hears someone approach over his shoulder, and turns his head to glare, waving them away. "Get lost!" He's not in a good mood.

Finally, somehow, someone gets him into the med tent, where he spends his time coughing and retching on his side while he sweats and twitches. Anyone tending to him will be treated to a glare.

"He needs help," Daryl says, nodding in the direction of the poor soul on the cot next to him. "M'fine."