Daryl holds back the urge to groan. That's too childish even for him. He sits in the stupid little cot he's been provided, and stares at the ceiling and wills this all to be over. He's always been good at forcing his mind to go blank, to mix alertness with emptiness. He does that now. The effect is... lessened by illness, but it's still there. It's still something. It makes time pass.

He doesn't move when she comes back. Maybe she'll go away.