Daryl leans over the hood of a broken down mini van as he installs a new battery, cigarette between his lips. Bob smokes, propped against the wall of the run-down gas station at their backs while Michonne and Tyreese sit at a distance, waiting to see if their new ride works out.

Daryl doesn't show it, but he's dying to get back out there. They already lost one night running into a giant herd plus losing their car and he can't stand to waste more time. Every second he's out here, it's another second that everyone has to fight against the sickness. It's another second Hope's in A block. To be fair, he isn't sure he'd prefer it for her to be out here.

Best to distract himself from it all. "You never told us about the group you were with before," he says. A puff of smoke leaves his lips.

Bob takes a drag, then exhales. "Which one?"

Daryl looks up at him, carefully reserved, before he turns back to the battery, checking the cells again. He was expecting a story, something to listen to so his thoughts don't linger on his wife, but he isn't willing to dig deep into the loaded question Bob's given him. It's not fun to talk about the people you've lost.

"You know, when you found me out on that road, I almost kept walking," Bob says. Apparently, Daryl thinks, he does want to talk.

"Why is that?" Daryl shifts the cigarette from one side of his mouth to the other and grabs the jug of water at his feet, pouring a little into the cells.

"Cause I was done being a witness. Two times, two different groups," he continues. "I was the last one standing. Like I was supposed to see it happen, over and over, like it's some kind of curse."

Daryl pinches the cigarette between his pointer and middle finger, exhaling smoke. Bob sighs, looking towards the sky.

"But, when it's just you out there with the quiet..." He sighs again. "Used to be I'd drink a bottle of anything just so I could shut my eyes at night."

Daryl can relate to that, just a little. He felt that right near the start, when Merle had disappeared and he was stuck in a group of strangers. He was determined to drink any and everything he could to forget it all. Now, whenever he thinks of that night, it's all her—flushed cheeks, soft giggles, slow words.

"Figured the prison, the people, thought it'd be easier," Bob continues. Daryl keeps working on the car. "The run to the Big Spot, I did it for me."

He takes a swig of water. "You gotta keep busy."

"No. I did it so I could get me a bottle. Of anything." Daryl watches him, but Bob doesn't meet his eyes. "I picked it up, I held it in my hand, but I put it down. I put it down so hard it took the whole damn shelf with it. That's what brought on the walkers and that's what got Zack killed."

Daryl stares at him for a second longer. "That's bullshit."

It's a supply run. You get what you need. Daryl doesn't believe anyone goes out on runs purely out of the goodness of their heart or just for the fun of it. The way he sees it, if something selfish gets you out there, gathering the shit you need to survive, then it's none of his business why you put yourself in that position.

"Why don't you get in there and try the engine?" Daryl asks. "It's a red and a green wire. Go on. It ain't rocket science."

Bob pushes off the wall, stubbing his cigarette out beneath his boot, and heads for the driver side. Daryl steps back, leaning around the side to watch as Bob climbs in.

"Give it some gas."

After a second, the engine starts, and Daryl gives a few celebratory claps. Good, at least one thing can go right today. He turns, taking the cigarette from his mouth and letting out a sharp wolf-whistle. Michonne and Tyreese look up from where they're sitting.

"Let's go! Vámonos!" he hollers.

The sooner they get this done, the better. He shuts the hood and walks around to the side, gathering up the bag at his feet. Bob's expression is still pained, guilty.

"Sasha and me picked that spot," he says. "We took you with us. There ain't no way anybody could've known. You ain't gonna be standing alone no more. Let's go."

The sooner they get this done, the better, and the last thing they need is more moping.

----------

They make it to the college without any further delays and, on the way in, they don't meet any unsavoury types. They make it to where they need to be, spreading out to get all the items on the list Hershel gave them.

"Anything ending with -cillin or -cin, C-I-N, grab it," Bob says. "We'll dissolve the pills into the I.Vs, put 'em right into the bloodstream. Dosage will be tricky but considering the time we lost..."

Daryl and Tyreese throw down a bag of stuff from the other room and Michonne moves to join them, arms laden with orange pill bottles. The second she empties her arms, she returns to the cabinets.

"How'd you do?" Bob calls.

"Bags, tubes, clamps, connectors," Tyreese says. "Everything on the list."

"What about y'all?" Daryl asks.

Bob looks back at Michonne as she scans her flashlight over everything, then nods. "Yeah, we got it all."

"Yeah, we're good," she agrees.

"Alright, let's roll," Daryl says, hoisting his crossbow in one hand and grabbing a bag with the other.

They move down a dirty hallway, strewn with papers and scattered chairs, wires dangling from parts where the ceiling has fallen down. Daryl leads, flashlight up, and the beam catches a bright red "exit" sign painted on the wall. He follows the arrow.

He sees movement in a room they pass.

Daryl stops on a dime, hand up, motioning for everyone to stop and stay quiet. He presses his back to the wall, peering through the window into the classroom just as a walker appears.

"Go," he hisses.

They pick up the pace. Where there's one, there's bound to be more. They duck into a dark room, the groans and snarls of the undead chasing them, and Bob turns to close the door. Daryl looks around, flashlight beam catching sight of tables, old wire cages, general debris. It's less of a room and more of a hall lined with more doors.

"Hey, door's busted!" Bob says.

Daryl and Tyreese move back, shoving against the door together, but Bob's right. It doesn't close, doesn't latch, and the walkers are getting louder. Daryl manages to wedge it just enough that it should buy them some time, but only seconds.

"There," Michonne whispers.

They follow her to a set of doors with a sign above promising a stairwell, only to find chains and walker fingers poking through the gap.

"Shit," Michonne curses.

Daryl squints, trying to count. "How many?"

"Can't tell."

At the end of the hall, the door creaks open as walkers start to get through. The first one through stumbles, snarling as it sprawls out on the linoleum.

"We can take 'em," Tyreese says, already reaching for his gun.

"No! They're infected. Same as at the prison," Bob warns.

Sure enough, Daryl's flashlight beam falls on the walker. It's got brown, dirty curls and her face and eyes are streaked with blood. For a split second, he pictures Hope, and a flash of rage strikes him.

"We fire at them, get their blood on us, breathe it in," Bob continues. "We didn't come all this way just to get sick!"

"How do we know the ones in there aren't any different?" Tyreese retorts.

"We don't," Michonne says.

"Well, it's gotta change sometime," Daryl says.

He grabs a nearby chair by the leg, slamming it against the wall, and it breaks apart in his hands. He plants his foot, ripping the leg the rest of the way off. The walkers are still coming.

"Ready?" he asks, planting the chair leg against the loose chains.

"Ready."

He rips the chain off, throwing himself back against the wall as the doors fly open. Three walkers stumble through and with one bullet from Bob and a well-timed katana slice from Michonne, they go down.

"Come on!" Daryl snaps, ushering them through into the stairwell.

They make it up the stairs and out into the hall, but their pursuers keep coming and there are more in the hall. The way towards the end of the hall is clear and, dispatching a few, they run. Bob throws down chairs and other large obstacles behind them as they go, each one a plea for more time against the bloody-eyed walkers.

"No exit!" Michonne says, rattling a locked door handle desperately.

"Then we make one!" Daryl retorts.

He hauls himself onto the window ledge, kicking the glass with his heel, but it doesn't break. Bob keeps throwing obstacles down, eyes wide with terror, and Tyreese grabs a fire extinguisher.

"GET DOWN!" he bellows.

Daryl ducks as the extinguisher goes through the window, raining down glass around them.

"Come on, move it!" Daryl calls, reaching out to help Michonne up. "Jump down to the walkway below!"

"They're here!" Bob cries.

Daryl helps Tyreese up as Michonne makes the short jump to safety on the covered walkway, then Tyreese goes through. Daryl follows with Bob hot on his heels.

Daryl lands and immediately follows Michonne and Tyreese, already on their way out, when he hears a grunt. He turns and Bob is on his stomach, bag dangling off the edge of the roof as he fights to get it back from the herd of walkers below.

Tyreese rushes to Bob's side, tugging at his shoulders, trying to get him up, but he refuses to release the bag. Michonne and Daryl drop their bags and go to help.

"Bob, let it go," Michonne says.

"Just let it go, man," Tyreese begs. "Let it go!"

Daryl's eyes narrow and he reaches down to tug Bob's arm. "Let go of the bag, man!" he snaps.

Bob finally gets the upper hand. He lurches back and the bag flies, landing hard on the roof, and Daryl hears the distinct clatter of glass meeting metal. For a second, they all stand, catching their breath. Tyreese helps Bob to his feet and Daryl approaches the bag. There's a label sticking out the top, a cap.

He pulls it out, flipping the glass bottle over in his hand. Rum, and a good amount of it too. Rage flares in his chest, hot and all-consuming. He flips open the rest of the bag and there's nothing inside but a knife and a pair of tweezers. He stands, turning to Bob, and at least the fucker has the decency to look scared shitless.

"You got no meds in your bag?" he asks. He holds up the bottle. "Just this?" Bob doesn't answer and Daryl's lip curls. "You should've kept walking that day."

He winds up, fully prepared to fling that bottle as far as it can go.

"Don't!" Bob says, hand flitting to his gun.

The rage burns hotter. This fucker, this piece of shit, would pull a gun on him over a few sips of booze? He's worried about getting drunk when Hope and Rick and everyone are back at the prison, doing everything they can just to stay alive?

Motherfucker.

Daryl stomps up to him, getting right in his face, so close that his nose touches Bob's forehead. He swears he can smell the fear on him as he stares him down. Bob doesn't look him in the eye, lip trembling, quivering like a mouse beneath a cat's paw. Good, Daryl thinks. Feel fucking guilty. I dare you.

Bob doesn't pull the gun, doesn't even try, and Daryl rips it from his holster. Again, he presses forward, too angry to think straight, to say a word as his forehead butts against Bob's. He grabs a fistful of his shirt.

"Just let it go, Daryl," Tyreese says. "The man's made his choice. Nothing you can do about it. Just gotta let it go."

Daryl seethes, his clenched fist shaking, but he releases Bob roughly. He stumbles a bit, still looking pale, like he's a second away from pissing himself. Daryl grips the bottle in his free hand, hating the feeling of the smooth glass on his fingertips.

Forget what he said about selfishness being a fine reason to come out here. Bob should have stayed home.

"I didn't want to hurt nobody," Bob says, his voice thick. "It was just for when it gets quiet."

Daryl lets the bottle hit Bob's chest. Bob grips it, still doesn't look him in the eye, and Daryl doesn't let go. He leans in, breaths harsh.

"Take one sip before those meds get in our people, I will beat your ass into the ground," he growls. Bob takes a single, shaky breath. Daryl shoves the bottle into him. "You hear me?"

He turns and storms away, gathering his things. He refuses to look back.

----------

Daryl sits in the passenger seat of the van, listening while the other three talk over the route home. He holds a stone between his fingertips, turning it over and over. It's a pale shade of green, sort of blue, possibly precious. He stumbled across it on a run a while back and held onto it.

At first, he wasn't sure why he kept it. It felt silly, like he was just pocketing something shiny like kids do. Lately, he's been wondering if he could turn it into something—a ring for Hope, maybe.

He asked her, months ago, if she wanted a wedding ring. Glenn got Maggie one (chopped it off a walker's finger, apparently) and he had wondered if Hope would want one. She had smiled—always smiling at him, like he exists and it makes her happy—and she said no. She said that even before, she was never big on jewellery. She didn't even have her ears pierced. The only thing she wore was her tiny gold cross necklace and she rarely takes that thing off. It's a comfort to her, a piece of her old life, a reminder of the faith that keeps her going even now.

But, an engagement ring? She said she had dreamed of having one before, but figured it wouldn't make sense to have one now. She didn't need a ring to feel married to him. She was already his; mind, body, heart, and soul.

She deserves something pretty, though, and he's held onto this stone as an idea. She likes green and maybe she'd like this, if he could find a way to make it something more than a rock he found on the side of the road. Maybe another necklace, or a bracelet.

"That's where I was travelling, Highway 100."

"Then it will take about seven hours to get there. We're gonna need more gas."

"But we'll get there."

He hears footsteps coming closer. He keeps turning the rock, over and over. He wonders if he could find a rock the same colour as Hope's eyes: brown with a bit of green mixed in. He could make a matching pair, his own version of a wedding band.

"Taking Highway 100," Tyreese says as he passes the van.

"I heard," Daryl grunts.

Michonne climbs into the driver side, closing the door behind her. She sighs.

"You were right, what you said before," she says. "About the trail going cold?"

He hums. Earlier, when they had just left the prison, they were talking about the Governor. Daryl stopped looking long ago. Michonne hadn't stopped. She was chasing a ghost.

"I don't need to go out anymore," she says.

He nods, shifting as he closes the door on his side. "Good."

Michonne starts the car and they drive off, headed for home. Tyreese and Bob sit in the back, each looking out the window. Daryl keeps looking at the rock, watching the way the light catches it. Maybe he could carve it. Women like heart-shaped shit, right? Would Hope like that?

He just wants to be home.