He looks so upset that she sets the poultice down and draws her hand back from where it rested on his worn shoe. In her irritation, she'd forgotten all about how he'd cringed back from her earlier, how carefully she'd planned to handle him. Shame crawls up her throat.

"Not--Daryl, it'll help. We have to do something about your fever." And this, maybe, will do something. It's not like she can give him Tylenol out here. She watches him, chewing on the inside of her lip. "It's just your boot. And your sock."

And if he says no, leave him alone.