The last thing that Rick Grimes remembers seeing before he closed his eyes was Lori, curled around him in their bed at the Greene farm. Her hair had smelled of her new shampoo, something citrusy that Maggie had dug out of the bowels of the pharmacy on one of her last trips there. Rick had held her close, palm laid flat on the plane of her abdomen and face nuzzled against her neck, and had let the soft sounds of her breathing lull him to sleep like they'd done so many times before.

What Rick encounters when he wakes up is not his wife or her sweet smelling hair, but a dull white room with flickering lights, air that reeks of antiseptics, a scratchy blanket, and restraints on his wrists and ankles. When he flexes his fingers, he feels the tug of the IV line that's been placed in his hand.

Rick's first thought is that he must be dreaming, which is strange because he rarely ever dreams, especially not so vividly. It's a very odd thing to be dreaming about anyway, hospital rooms and wrist restraints—but how could he not be dreaming? He forces his eyes back open, lids heavy under the haze of whatever it is that's flowing through his IV line, and he watches as he wiggles the blurry, fuzzy looking things that must be his fingers.

He blinks once, and then again, and then he begins to struggle against his restraints, attempting to raise his hand just high enough to deliver a smack to his face so that he might be able to wake himself up.

"Woah, hey. Easy. You're gonna tear your arm out of the socket," says a familiar voice, accompanying the feeling of a strong, firm hand being placed on his shoulder.

Rick offers a sleepy smile as his head lolls off to the side, letting a faint chuckle slip out from between his lips. "Daryl," he croaks. What an odd dream indeed, he thinks, what a strange companion for him to be imagining. And what ugly scrubs Daryl has on—is that a squirrel sewn onto the pocket?

"The one and only," the man replies as he goes about undoing Rick's restraints. "How're you feeling?"

Rick considers it, and then chuckles again. "Weird."

"Yeah, that's to be expected." Daryl grunts as he helps haul Rick into a sitting position, adjusting the blanket that's been haphazardly tossed across the lower half of his body. "You've been out for a while. Doc gave you the good stuff this time."

"Mmph," Rick mumbles in response, relishing in the feeling of having fresh blood flowing through his limbs, rushing all the way down to the tips of his toes. "What's this place 'posed to be?"

Daryl cocks an eyebrow as he leans over to check Rick's IV, adjusting the flow rate on his bag of fluids. "Well, I don't know about what it's supposed to be, but I know what it is. Central State Hospital."

Rick lets out a genuine laugh at that. Central State Hospital—Georgia's largest psychiatric facility.

"You pass out spiked booze last night or something? Break out Merle's good stuff?" he asks Daryl, reaching up with his now free hand to rub at his temple. I'm dreaming, he tells himself. Dreamingdreamingdreaming.

Daryl kneels down beside Rick's bed, folding his arms over the bed rail. "It's okay to be confused," he says, offering up a comforting smile.

A plus bed manner, Dixon.

"You've been out for a few days." Christ, a few days? "I'll let doctor Horvath know you're awake, alright? He's going to want to have a talk with you. Check up on how you're doing."

Rick's fingers slide down from his temple to his eyes and he gives them a good rub. Doctor Horvath. Dale. Doctor Dale. The rate his head is whirling is making his stomach do the same and he isn't quite sure whether he wants to laugh, or to cry.

Of course he's not dreaming. He knew that. Central State wouldn't even exist in his—what? World? Parallel? Reality?

Delusions?

He glances up at Daryl with weary eyes and gives him a nod. "Okay," he says. "Okay."

"Okay," Daryl repeats, reaching up to give Rick's shoulder a gentle squeeze.

"I'm crazy," Rick says. "Okay. I'm crazy."

Daryl lets out a chuckle of his own as he stands, sneakers squeaking on the tile. "Man, who isn't?"