"Yeah, yeah," Daryl says, in a tone that implies it doesn't matter. He's in charge of caring about himself, nobody else. Duv's apparent worry is a polite cover for thinking he's not good enough. It's not meant in a cruel way, Daryl knows, but it's true. It's not Duv's job to care about him.

He tugs away from Duv's grasp, his strength annoying sapped from him. Lying in the snow, he thinks he could stay here. He'd get pneumonia and die, which isn't a terribly upsetting thought for some reason, except then they'd have to deal with his corpse. Then Beth would.

It's hard to get up with Duv holding onto Daryl's wrists, and he stumbles like an idiot, swearing all the while.