It smells like hickory smoke and death, nothing particularly unusual to Daryl, and there's not enough left in him to want to hurl. He lies there and lets his eyes close, hunched into a half circle on the cot.

Beth has more than proven that she'll do whatever suits her. There's no point in asking for favors or instructing her. She'll do what she damn well pleases. He supposes she's earned that.

"He swung at me," Daryl says. In all fairness, he's pretty sure he goaded Miles into it, but at the moment, fevered and exhausted, these aren't the details that spring to mind.