He actually huffs a laugh, weak and ragged, his legs aching. He can barely feel his feet, which should be more of a relief, but he figures that's probably a bad sign.

"A regular one, where I'm from. I've sure as hell never met anybody named Daryl," he says, but he's grinning a little, shaking his head. Each breath sears his lungs, but the conversation is making him more lucid, making it easier to focus. "I'm a mechanic, and a combat surgeon. What d'you do, when you're not kidnapped and slogging through a howling frozen wasteland with no weapons and no jacket?"