His breathing steadied when he felt the cold washcloth on his neck, her hand moving soothingly over his shaking back as he clutched the bucket in front of him.
Daryl was the last to catch the flu that had claimed almost all of them. It was a miracle no one had died yet.
And as Carol's cool hand gently stroked his damp hair off his sweaty forehead and rested on his cheek, he finally stopped fighting it, her touch bringing him the comfort and relief he needed to let his eyes drift shut and fall into a deep, restful sleep.