Daryl has not, in truth, been cared for like this before. No one has ever sat over his bed and ministered him health, never given him medicine. He doesn't know what to do with it. The vulnerability sits poorly on his shoulders. He can't stop the tension rising in his shoulders.

"What're you gonna do?" He really ought to know, but he hasn't been paying attention, fool that he is. He'd been weaving in and out of consciousness since the shitty nurses showed up.