Daryl is shuffling out of the tent as soon as he realizes someone is around. This is his stupid fault. He let himself relax, even luxuriate into the simple comfort of the bath, and then- of course somebody shows up. Damn fool he is, he doesn't move fast enough. He's tightening his belt when he hears her voice.

At least it's the queen, and not some fool he doesn't know. Is that better, though? Daryl isn't sure.

He pulls a shirt on as quickly as he can, the stinking sleeveless rag he wore in Georgia. It still has Dawn's blood on it.

"What." His voice is harsh; anger lurks behind the word.