Beth's noticed that Daryl's been under the weather, and she's tried on occasion to get him to slow down a little--but it's Daryl, one of the most pig-headed men she's ever met. He shrugs off that bandage around his wrist, glares at the idea that he might be sick, and only walks faster from trap to trap when she suggests that she and the others can take them over.

But when she finds him fumbling through knots he knows by heart, looking bleary-eyed at his work like he's never seen it before, she decides she's not taking no for an answer. He's already cut himself open once. She's not letting him get himself killed trying to tough out a virus.

"C'mon," she tells him, reaching for his arm. The surgical mask she's been wearing to help with the other flu patients hangs from one ear. "You need to lie down."