Daryl is only able to move slowly, in increments. First, his hands, then his feet, then his arms and legs. When he can sit up, he feels groggy and uncoordinated. It's a shitty feeling, like a hangover with perfect clarity. At least he doesn't have any regrets.

He doesn't want to drink the water this place pumps up, but he hasn't got a choice. He takes it, and considers York for a moment. He's caring, polite, that's... probably gonna get him dead in a week. Damn shame.

He drinks. "Great," he says with grumbling sarcasm. "Guessing your doctor's visit went a whole lot better."