The poultice is kind of gross--soggy, thick-smelling, apt to turn cold eventually--but Daryl's only Daryl. The snow's melted off of him, mostly, and he's not wheezing or puking. (Maybe those things really do work, at least a little.) For a few moments, she's silent, letting him settle in and get comfortable.

"You want anything else?" she asks, wondering if he'll take it the wrong way. He doesn't want to have to want--that's what it is, isn't it? He wants to provide everything, not find himself trapped on a sickbay bedroll with half a dozen faces looking down at him, telling him what to do. "I can get you some water."

At least, she'll probably put a bowl next to him, just in case.