Eyelids fluttered.

A groan resonated from the woman lying on the bunk bed. With great difficulty, she threw her arm over her eyes as a bright light invaded her vision, burning her retinas.

"Welcome back."

Samara squinted through the camp lantern's light as Hershel walked inside her cell and hung it on the bed's iron support. He sat on the mattress and Samara felt the light prodding on her skin as he checked her vitals.

"How long…has it…been?" Talking proved to be just as difficult as her throat and the interior of her mouth was as dry as sandpaper.

"Four days." Hershel said as he listened to her heartbeat.

She could feel it. Everything in her body hurt, from her bones to the tip of her nails. Even the smallest of efforts had her cringe in pain. As of now, every inch of her back was now a low-pounding minefield and someone was systematically triggering each and every one like a complete doucehbag.

This is what she feared…this paralyzing sensation with no hope of movement.

Did I really make the right choice?

"…Water."

Hershel opened the bottle next to the bed and tipped the clear liquid slowly to her lips. The first sip had her sputtering and choking.

"Slow now."

Licking her wet lips, Samara settled back on her pillow and tried to lie as still as possible. She felt so tired. More tired than she had ever been before. Even the effort of keeping her eyes open was overwhelming.

"Is it over?" Please Gods, let it be.

"Almost."

The woman flinched as she tried not to sink into despair. She wanted 'done' not 'almost'.

"I want…out of this cell." Her words shook with each breath. The Native wanted sunshine and the warmth of the sun on her skin. This small concrete box was cold and emotionless, and had become too familiar for her liking. Now she understood why some prisoners lost their minds as the years went by. Living in the same small cage every single day for many years or your whole life was nothing short of madness.

As Hershel finished his inspection, he leaned away from her with a fatherly, lukewarm smile.

"Your vitals are stabilizin' and your pulse is close to normal. You'll experience headaches and phantom nausea in the next few days, so don't be alarmed. But all in all, you'll be alright." He patted her hand gently as his smile widened. "Congratulations, Samara. You got through."

She tried to join in the man's revelry, but her facial muscles hurt badly. The most she could muster up was a faint grimace.

This was good, right? She was finally free of her dependence.

Things will start getting easier from now on…right?

The first week had been the worst.

Samara panted as she ran outside the prison, circling the buildings in the cool morning air. She had made a habit of running every morning before Hershel swooped in with his magic hands, but even as she tried to keep her mind solely on the sound of her boots hitting concrete, the Native's focus was still on the cravings of her body. There were days were she wanted to climb the walls using her teeth and days where she seriously considered breaking her new regime. It took considerable pains not to throw away all the hard work up until now based on a temporary whim.

…At least her appetite was slowly regaining its existence and food no longer tasted like ash.

Hershel had been a real help. He had created a schedule composed of Pilates, exercises and his massages…he really was good at it. As for the cravings, Hershel had suggested chocolate or candy to subside them, but Samara was allergic to chocolate and she'd never had much of a sweet tooth. Cigarettes had been the next item, but the prison was currently lacking in them and the five month absence had her abstain from starting that particular habit once more.

Huff. Huff.

She had gotten closer to the old man. During their exercises, they spent their time talking about agriculture and he had promised to teach her how to farm once they started the garden. He seemed to be truly excited about having a willing student. His daughters had never been excited about cropping fields or cultivating the fruits of their labor.

Huff. Huff. Wince.

The pain wasn't as acute as it had been before, but there was still a high degree that sometimes had her with tears in her eyes. The occasional shriek had stopped two days ago and little by little she was getting to an acceptable tolerance, but there was still that constant reminder in her spine that told her she wasn't out of hazardous waters yet.

Hershel said that in her case time was needed to get accustomed to this new lifestyle. He was hoping that within a month, Samara would be fit enough for any activity without hindrance. Right now, she was able to do menial tasks, anything hard like supply runs were out of the question.

But one thing was for sure—Hershel was positive with the results.

As she turned the corner of the building she saw the door to the prison open and Daryl step outside. Despite his notice of her, his stride did not break.

"Where are you heading off to?" She asked as he passed her towards the direction she came from. It was early in the morning, early enough that dew was still clinging onto grass.

He was still irate with her. At that time, she had been angry and her words stemmed from her defensive instincts, but she had meant them. If his response was to pout and avoid her then that was his prerogative.

"Gonna see if a deer got caught in the cage." He responded frostily.

Ah, the cage.

During her recuperation, he had built a cage intended to catch deer alive and set it up on an undisclosed location beyond the prison's fences. She really had wished she had been present during its construction. Who knew when knowledge like that was ever needed?

"Next time you're going, I'm coming with you."

Daryl gave her a fleeting glance before he kept on walking with Samara right on his tracks.

"Shouldn't you be takin' it easy?"

"I'm not going to relapse if I walk through a forest." She eyed the glum building as a tremor overcame her hands. "I need to get away from the prison for a little while. I feel stir crazy."

"Last time you felt like that, you ended up with a nearly broken back."

She frowned as memories of Hampton came to mind. "It's not that kind of stir crazy."

There was an uncomfortable stretch of time before Daryl spoke again. His voice had lost some of the harsh edge, opting for a more pensive one.

"Thinkin' about them?"

"Every day." Nails pressed against her palms to stop the shiver from increasing. "I have highs and lows and some of those lows start so unexpectedly that it's a struggle 'staying on the wagon' so to say. I always thought that detoxing would be the hardest part, but now I know that staying clean is the actual struggle." She despised this situation; that it had to happen. To know that she was being watched every moment of her waking hours was nothing less than detestable. She made one move towards the medical ward and Hershel or one of her companions would be there to block her path.

They didn't trust her to stay clean. It was an apt response when it concerned druggies—the doubt that they had the willpower to stay on the path.

It was moments like these that made the Native grateful that her temper had improved, otherwise she would have attacked them on the spot.

"Is it always this hard?" She asked curiously.

Daryl shrugged. "Never had to go cold turkey."

"Really?"

He turned, exasperation written all over his face. "Because I'm a redneck I'm supposed to be a junkie also?"

"If the shoe fits."

The man's lips contorted.

Samara sighed. She really tried to refrain herself from annoying him, but a jab or two always managed to slip. It was an old habit that still brought some measure of delight at seeing him on edge, but the thought of slipping back into it had her on pins and needles. She could banter with the two women all she wanted and never take it to heart, but it was different with Dixon. History proved it.

"I just thought that since you realized what I was going through, you must have gone through it as well." She reformulated her answer, hoping to placate the disturbed waters. "Besides, you did have those Doxy's with you when we met. No offense, but hospitals don't give out those sorts of painkillers in a vitamin bottle."

"My brother was the one that liked his drugs too much. Tried to lay off 'em once, but changed his mind two hours into it. Said that stayin' clean wasn't for him."

Is this why he had been so obsessed with her dependence? Because it reminded him of his brother's situation?

His brother…What was his name again?

She remembered T-Dog telling her the man's story, but his name escaped her entirely. Her brain must have forgotten that information, deeming it unnecessary to remember like all useless information was.

It didn't matter. She had no interest in a dead man. Those living were of more concern.

They arrived at the outer fence, at the gap that had been created the first time the group reached the prison. As Daryl busied himself with untying the cord keeping the gap closed, Samara eyed him closely. After she had gotten out of Cell Block B he had avoided remaining alone with her in the same room. She had imagined that the moment she got even a foot near him, his loose temper would have him run like a scalded cat.

Still avoiding problems, I see.

"So, can I come along or do I have to go on my own?" She asked as Dixon passed through the open gap onto the other side.

The hunter's shrewd gaze had Samara keep her ground with her head held proudly high.

He shook his head as he snorted softly. "Sure."

His answer was more mocking than anything, but she took what she could get.

As she worked on lacing up the opening, Daryl noticed the minute discomfort as she constantly straightened her back.

"You alright?"

"Yeah, I just have to keep my back straight at all times. Hershel says I shouldn't bend it too often, at least for the time being." She pushed her hand into the small of her back and heard a small pop. "I swear I need to tape a goddamn pole there."

Dixon said nothing as he gave the Native one last look before walking away and disappearing into the withered overgrowth.

Samara sighed in relief. For a moment there she had been worried he would say no. While going on her own was relatively fine, she would have liked to see the location of the cage.

Damn, all of this frostiness because she couldn't keep her big mouth shut.

Why the hell did she have to go and shout that out? That was the reason the hunter was so distant now. She called him out on his odd behavior and he was now retreating for the cover of their old grudge. Samara should have been more careful with her words. Nothing good came out of annoying that man.

But it was true, wasn't it?

She wanted to deny it with all her heart, but even she couldn't allow herself to be that oblivious. The man had an odd fascination with her, like Grimes used to with saving her from herself. She hadn't been a hundred percent sure, not until she blurted it out and watched Daryl's palpable reaction to it. That was when he confirmed it and, Gods, did she want to run for the hills. Sentimentality was not her forte even these days and even less when such sentimentality had this particular man in the diagram.

She just hoped his reason was anything other than what usually brought men and women together. That was how far her awareness went. Pass that and she was back in denial territory.

Gods, why the hell do I keep attracting these kinds of people?

Rustle.

Russet fingers languidly ghosted over the yellowed-out pages of a novel. Samara was in the library, sitting on the cold floor with numerous books strewn around her. She had been looking through them for the better part of the hour for anything useful for her livelihood, but it seemed the prison had a limited genre—law books and, surprisingly, romance were the most prominent.

At least this would keep her occupied until her guard shift started later.

A door opened in the distance and Samara listened to the steps that strolled inside. She tried to gauge the identity of the visitor, but it was unattainable. Michonne and Andrea were the only living humans on Earth that she could recognize by sound alone. Everyone else was lost to her.

"Samara, you in here?"

Grimes.

"Second row on the left." The woman dropped her book in her lap as she waited for the man's appearance.

Rick peeked from the corner of the bookshelf and his eyes found her immediately.

"What is it?" She asked as his tense form and twitching fingers caught her immediate attention.

Something was wrong.

"I need to talk to you about somethin'." He crouched down to her level, absentmindedly perusing the book's titles at her feet.

"I didn't do it."

The man paused. "What?"

"I'm assuming this is about something I've done."

Rick huffed before cracking a small smile. "You know, Samara, not everythin' is about you."

"And here I thought otherwise judging from that pissed off expression on your face." Now she was really intrigued. He wanted advice from her on matters, was that it?

"This is serious."

The Native conceded under the man's grave frown.

"How well do you trust Michonne?"

Samara blinked. What?

"She's the Ying to my Yang." The woman pushed the book from her lap and straightened out, suddenly heavily focused on the man before her. "What's this about, Grimes? Did Michonne do something?"

"Not yet."

Those two words had been spoken so ominously that it had the fine hairs on Samara's arm stand to attention.

"Is Michonne…" Grimes paused as he turned over in his head the best way to phrase his thoughts. He sighed as he scratched his head in frustration. "Have you ever heard her think out loud or just…talk?"

Oh, shit.

"Because I went by her cell just now and Michonne was discussin' somethin' with no one in there." There was an accusatory shine in his eyes as he searched for any faults in her demeanor. He needed to be reassured that it wasn't what he was thinking. "She was sayin' somethin' about not caring of others opinions and some other things I couldn't really hear. Said she was just thinkin' out loud, but I don't believe it. It looked like she was havin' a one-sided conversation which only she could hear the answers to. "

Dammit, Michonne. You had to go and to that, didn't you?

"Don't worry about it." Samara hoped she could convince Grimes to let it slide for now. She did not want to explain herself what ailed Michonne. It was…complicated.

"Samara, what's goin' on? If your friend's sick in the head, I need to know—"

She raised her hand to stop him from further speaking. "Grimes, there's nothing to worry about. Michonne is not crazy. If she was, do you honestly think I would have traveled with her for so long?"

Grimes looked unconvinced.

"I know you don't have many reasons to, but just trust me on this." She really did hope he would let her do it her way. If he marched over to Michonne right now and confronted her again, or worse Andrea, the woman was likely to stab someone. Being questioned of her past was something she responded severely to when it was done by a stranger. "Let me handle this my way."

The former sheriff exhaled heavily as he raked his hand through his outgrown hair. He didn't like this, that much was obvious from his frustrated expression. She understood his plight. Samara herself had been in his place many months ago when she learned of Michonne's particularities.

"If somethin' happens, she's your responsibility. I already had my fill with Tomas and Andre. I don't need another murderin' lunatic locked up with us in here."

Samara scrunched up her nose. "Who said anything about that? Michonne's not crazy. And you're really not the person to tell me how to handle my friends, all things considered."

Rick's jaw locked tight, making his teeth click against one another.

The Native waited for a backlash, even a curse or two, but he said nothing. That had been a low blow and Samara was well aware of that. She might have chiseled her claws, but her teeth were still as sharp as ever. Nevertheless, the only visible reaction the man showed was a deepening of his frown and a minute flash of melancholy.

Samara huffed, a slither of guilt piercing her conscience. Maybe she went too far with that one.

"I would appreciate it if you'd keep this incident to yourself." She picked up the book she had thrown away, her voice taking on a more detached quality. "There's no need to create unnecessary suspicions."

"Fine."

As she heard the door close behind him, Samara threw the book away in anger. She didn't need this on her plate. She had her own problems to deal with.

The Native grumbled as she stared at the opposite bookshelf with a scowl.

Why couldn't Michonne just talk in her head like a normal person?

Samara found the woman outside the prison, practicing her katas. The orange and red hue reflecting off the blade created a rainbow across her sunglasses and blinded her for a moment.

Michonne paused for a moment as she spotted the Native before regaining her footing.

"Still want to learn how to swing a blade?" She asked between breaths, her muscles flexing underneath her pullover.

"No, I prefer my long-distance weapons." Samara leaned against a rusty, metal barrel as she pushed her sunglasses over her forehead. She just hoped Michonne would be in a cooperating mood today and not shut down on her. "You need to be more careful, Michonne. Of all the people that had to stumble on your little secret just be lucky it was Grimes. The others would have reacted more strongly."

Michonne froze mid-swing, her form tense. With a heavy exhale she let her arms lower and faced her companion with her characteristic grimness.

"I see he already came running to you."

Her shoulders rose expectantly. "Can you blame him?"

The sword-wielder cursed as she stood as still as a statue, her eyes the only indicator of life. They told of a mind moving at a hundred miles per hour assessing a situation from all possible angles.

Lawyers…

She looked up suddenly.

"Does Andrea know?" Her eyes widened as the frenzy accentuated. "Tyreese?"

"Think clearly for a second." Samara's calm voice anchored the woman from sailing off the edge. "If those two knew, what would their first instinct be?"

Samara could see from her stabilizing breath that she came to the same conclusion that both would have come to her demanding answers.

"You're safe for now, but Rick will want an explanation." She crossed her arms, already dreading that moment. It will be a tough one to explain without making Michonne appear crazy.

"I can't." Michonne shook her head resolutely as her voice strained to the point of breaking. "I'm not ready to talk about that with others. It's hard enough that you know, I don't need more joining. They wouldn't understand."

"Hell Michonne, I hardly understand, but I learned to adapt to it." Samara sighed as she tried to placate the upset woman. "You can't blame him for being freaked out. I was when I first saw you talking to yourself."

The woman snorted. "I remember since you threatened me with a gun."

Samara shrugged again, not at all apologetic. "I wasn't about to sleep next to a possibly mentally unstable woman. I'd rather be cautious than dead."

Michonne said nothing as she paced across the frozen pavement, still not entirely composed. Samara swore that for someone who didn't value other people's opinions, she sure cracked when others found out traits that defined her. Then again, if Samara had been in her position, she would also be understandably agitated. This was not an easy burden to carry.

She wondered why now of all times? To her knowledge, Michonne had stopped talking to her dead boyfriend many months ago, during the time she started opening up to her and Andrea. Samara hoped this wasn't a sign of regression because that would destroy all the progress she had made over the last eight months.

"What's brought this on, Michonne? I thought you said those times were gone."

Michonne turned towards the descending sun and let its faint warmth wash over her. As she stood basking in its orange hue, she breathed in and out as deeply as possible. She needed to clear her head and Samara obliged her as she waited patiently.

"It helps from time to time, you know." She still didn't turn, preferring to stare into the dying light. "I miss him. Even when Mike was with me, he wasn't really. It was just a monster wearing his face."

The woman huffed as her expression morphed into self-deprecation.

"You want to know why I started talking to him again? It's because I realized yesterday that I don't remember what his voice sounds like." Michonne tightened her grip on her arms, unable to come to terms with her weakness. "Even his face…it gets blurred between the Mike I know and the walker I carried around for almost eight months. I'm afraid I'm going to forget him completely one day."

Samara understood her friend's plight as she was in the same boat. Her husband and father had all but evaporated from her mind without the presence of the photos being a constant reminder. Without those souvenirs of a forgotten past, they had become just corpses that she had to climb over to keep on living this retched half-life and, sometimes, when the situation struck a chord within her she would remember that such people existed—the ones labeled father and husband. Friends. In-laws. Coworkers.

From the most precious people in her life they had been reduced to just background noise. To be remembered only when convenient.

Such a retched thing the brain was.

"I thought that maybe if I talked to him like I used to I could hear his voice, but…" Michonne paused as she licked her dry lips, keeping her voice as steady as possible. "It wasn't him, just a man's voice that seemed familiar yet foreign at the same time. Like all the men's voices I've heard all my life up until now mashed up together to create this distorted sound."

The sword-wielder swallowed thickly as she shook her head to rid herself of the demons inside.

Not so easy, is it?

"What's brought this on?" Samara asked as she tried to understand the underlining root of this entire dilemma.

Michonne pressed her lips tightly. Whatever was on the woman's mind weighted heavily on her conscious. Samara hadn't been in touch with her two companions for some time as she had been more concerned with her own state of mind. Michonne was bothered by something, probably had been for a while now, but Samara hadn't noticed.

This is why a smaller group was better. This way you always looked after the one next to you, physically and mentally, but with a larger group you didn't always have to. There was always someone else who could do it. But Michonne was a different case—she adhered strictly to who she knew. Trust was something earned with her, not given.

"Tyreese."

Samara was startled out of her thoughts.

"We've been getting closer these past few weeks." A serenity washed away Michonne's earlier discomfort and jangled nerves. The Native watched in awe as the thought of the burly man had brought Michonne to a state of utter peace.

–How much did she miss these past two weeks?

"Did you know he was a NFL linebacker?" Michonne turned to her with a light, recollecting smile. "I told you I loved football, watched it religiously. I knew something was familiar about him but I never thought that I would actually meet a football star one day. Stranger things can happen."

"He's a good man. I can tell just by the way he frets over his sister and the way he handles situations within the prison. He's one of those guys that still have compassion and selflessness running through their veins without them being a hindrance." Her smile dimmed to a thin line. "He's nothing like me."

Samara frowned. Wasn't that a good thing? The good ones were usually the first to depart from this world, usually under painful and gruesome circumstances.

"You like him, don't you?"

Michonne didn't respond, there was no need to. The answer was in her words.

The Native sighed as tried to keep her composure.

"We're not staying here forever, Michonne."

In other words—you can't get attached.

…That is if you intend to leave with me when the time comes.

"I know, but I still want to." She said simply with no trace of doubt. "It's been some time since Mike died and I'm ready to move on. Tyreese is someone I can see myself kill time with."

Samara removed herself from the barrel as she walked closer to Michonne, never too close but always within range. This was a serious matter, one that could have a lasting impact on their future.

"I'm not telling you what to do, Michonne but—"

"Then don't."

Clear and crisp with no room for hesitation.

The Native smirked as she stared at the last ray of sunlight before the sun finally disappeared behind the dead fields and withered trees. Strange how beautiful nature could be and at the same time so nihilistic.

"I trust you to do what's right for you."

Michonne nodded appreciatively. She didn't require any hand holding or guiding—Michonne was a warrior, a quiet and resilient one. Mollycoddling someone like her was nothing short of silly.

"How are you coping with the group?"

She shrugged. "I don't poke my nose where it's not wanted."

Meaning she was watching and listening, but not engaging. Just biding her time for when it was necessary.

Samara nodded in adieu as she left the sword-wielder to her practice. Good or bad, Samara will leave this to Michonne. Pushing against the issue would get her nowhere and Samara wasn't about to get in fight with Michonne over something as banal as feelings.

Huh…Tyreese.

Maybe it was to be expected. After all, at the end of the day we were all just human. Samara couldn't ask Michonne or any other to remain frosty for however much time they had left. The three women have been for the most part withdrawn from other human contact and then, after months, throw into a social gathering that had members of the opposite sex. It must have been like taking a drink of rejuvenating, fresh water after a long-lasting drought.

Samara smirked. Well, that throws my lesbian theory out the window.

The Native wasn't in the same boat as Michonne—she already knew most of the group and the only problem she had was trust. Samara had to relearn to mildly rely on the others again. Time and distance had given her a wide birth and she wasn't so inclined to believe anyone again so easily.

Then how the hell did Michonne—a person who was even more distrusting than she was—manage to attach herself to an outsider after only a month?

Love?

She seriously hoped not. That would instantly mess up her plans and make life harder for her.

What would an in-love Michonne be like? Would she bring walker trophies to Tyreese as proof of her undying adoration? Heads on the pointy tip of her katana?

Samara tried not to laugh at the image conjured in her head as she walked across the prison grounds. In the distance, there was the fence clean-up crew, consisted of Dixon and Sasha piling up the walker bodies into the Ford's bed trunk. Pausing near the prison entrance, her eyes remained on the distant figure of the Georgia hunter. Her fingers twitched over her inner coat pocket where her photos were—her anchor in the storm.

Michonne appeared at such peace when discussing the man of her interests.

Relationships. Comfort. Sentimentality…Love.

Samara was reluctant to ponder on such controversial subjects. It seemed fruitless in this new world. What good would love do other than give you a swift, one-way ticket to the coffin? In times like these emotional practicality was more wise. Just like soldiers—be prepared to see the man next to you die and move on without a slither of a doubt.

—You stop to grieve, you die. Simple as that.

How she wished she could be as harsh and level-headed as that. If she had been, she wouldn't be carrying these remnants of a lost world nor would she have stopped and grieved for her husband after New York. She would have marched on instead.

Emotionless as a rock. That's what Samara wanted to be. No room for doubt, no second-guessing a decision. Just take action and never torment yourself over 'what if's'.

But as soon as the thought came, it soured her mood as memories of John flashed before her eyes. Samara pondered over the loneliness she sometimes experienced, particularly when she witnessed the love and devotion between Maggie and Glenn. It was sickening and charming at the same time, and Samara was always torn between looking away or reminiscence over happier times with her husband. And when the later prevailed, a burgeoning hollowness gripped her insides, alerting her that something was missing from her life.

If there was one thing she missed, it was sharing her life, her experiences with a significant other. Someone that cared enough to listen as she prattled on about her dreary day without faking interest. Someone that she could share warmth with on cold days. Some she could touch freely…

Samara banished such imprudent thoughts. Daydreaming was a dangerous pursuit.

Disregarding the pair in the distance, she climbed the stairs intent on returning to her cell to await her tower shift. But as soon as she tried to redirect her thoughts, they adamantly returned to more intimate topics.

—When was the last time she had sex?

A year ago by her calculations, yet it felt like decades had passed and cobwebs was what was left between her legs. It wasn't like she couldn't live without it. Considering what she faced on a daily basis, sex was at the bottom of her need pyramid. Yet…

To feel such a physical connection once more—damp skin against skin, muscles and flesh grinding against one another in fervor, breathless pants accompanied by moans and grunts and the interlude of such a coupling…would be nothing short of breathtaking.

And risky as hell.

It wasn't like she had a flock of men to pick from—Grimes was married, Glenn and Tyreese were taken, Dale and Hershel were old as time, Axel and Oscar she barely even trusted, she had no intention of becoming a lesbian, so that left…

She paused just as she was about to close the door. Olive eyes narrowed over the hunter just as he walked up towards the truck's driver side, no doubt with sweat pouring down his forehead and skin smudged with walker blood and dirt.

Her lips contorted.

No.

Not even going to think about that.

Being alone wasn't that bad. She had been dealing with it for the past year and she knew that in the long run celibacy wouldn't kill her. Make her cranky maybe, but in the grand scheme of things it was unimportant. There were more imperative things she had to worry about than her dying libido.

Samara smirked in dry amusement. She never thought she would end up an old maid. The only difference was she carried a bundle of guns instead of cats.

What a great day to be alive.

Foot Note: I don't really know if that's how detoxing goes since I've only seen it in movies and read some articles on the net, but I hope you get the gist of it—it's nasty and it hurts, but all for the better. I wouldn't call Sam a druggie per say, she's more similar to a housewife popping Xanax and Valium to get through her day than an actual frothing-at-the-mouth junkie.

That part with Rick finding out about Michonne was in the comics, only it was Andrea instead of Rick. I made just some small adjustments since in the TV show he finds out anyway, only later.

Anyways, Samara's onto Daryl—she might not be sure what he's after, but she's sniffing around like a detective. What is Daryl after, I wonder?