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Daryl was only half-aware of being dragged into the farmhouse and laid down on what might have been the softest bed he'd ever been in in his life. It had been a long-ass day already, what with finding Sophia's doll and falling off the horse and having Merle yell at him while he climbed up the embankment and then … he touched his fingers to the side of his head … being shot at. These people really weren't going to stop until they killed him.

Rick was sitting by him, but before he could say anything Hershel came in.

"Where's he hurt?" he asked, as if Daryl wasn't even there. Or wasn't conscious. Or wasn't worth talking to.

After Hershel looked at the graze on his head, cleaning it, bandaging it, and pronouncing it superficial, which Daryl could have told him, Daryl stripped his shirt off, pointing to the wound in his side. The bleeding had slowed, but it was going to need tending. "I think that's the worst of it."

Hershel didn't say anything, taking an alcohol swab and cleaning the wound. Daryl couldn't really blame him—here they were on his farm, squatting, basically, taking his resources, and every time they turned around they were messing something up.

"Daryl," Rick said, laying a map out on the bed. "You found Sophia's doll."

"I did. Found it washed up on a creek bed right there." He pointed at the spot. "She must have dropped it crossin' or somethin'."

"Cuts the grid almost in half."

"Yeah, you're welcome," Daryl told him. No one else had found hide nor hair of the little girl. Shane was sitting there across the room, Shane with his big mouth who wanted to be leader, and he hadn't done anything, far as Daryl could tell.

"How's he lookin'?" Rick asked as Hershel finished stitching the wound in Daryl's side.

"I had no idea we'd be going through the antibiotics so quickly. Any idea what happened to my horse?"

"Yeah, the one that almost killed me? If it's smart, it left the country." He felt bad about the horse, he really did—but far as he could tell, he'd gotten the worst of it today.

"We call that one Nellie. As in Nervous Nellie," Hershel told him. "I could've told you she'd throw you if you'd bothered to ask. It's a wonder you people have survived this long," he added to Rick.

"We're sorry," Rick told him. "We'll do better."

"Uh-huh." Hershel left the room.

"You going to be all right?" Rick asked.

"Fine, if I can go a day without someone trying to kill me."

"I'll see what I can do."

And Rick was gone, with Shane right behind him, leaving Daryl alone to enjoy the comfortable bed.

At the sound of the gunshot, Carol came running from the kitchen, just in time to see Shane and Rick carrying an injured Daryl past her into the house. She watched helplessly and was starting to go in and offer to help with his wounds when Dale came up to her, holding a bundle that she didn't recognize at first, it was so filthy.

And then she did, and tears came to her eyes as she took it and held it close. Sophia's doll. The one given to her by the little Morales girl, which she hadn't had the time to name. If she had dropped it—

"Where did this come from, Dale?"

"I don't know. Daryl had it, but we can't ask him any questions because Andrea shot him in the head," Dale said tartly.

Carol looked past him at Andrea, who stood stricken and wide-eyed in the middle of the yard. Well. So her bravado had harmed someone else, had it? Carol couldn't say she was surprised. She even understood Andrea, a little bit—the anger that filled her, the belief that she was capable and could, and should, take care of herself. But to pretend to a mastery you didn't have and get other people hurt? That was going too far, in Carol's opinion. Maybe Andrea understood that now. Carol was only sorry Daryl was the one who had had to suffer for it. He'd done nothing but try to find Sophia, and he had brought back the first trace of her. Maybe this meant they would find her soon. Carol had a hard time believing it, but … She held the doll up. Maybe. Just maybe.

After everyone else had eaten—the meal Carol had hoped would bring them together, but which had been silent and tense and unhappy, the food going cold on the plates—Carol took a plate up to Daryl.

He pulled the sheet up over his chest as she came in.

"How are you feeling?"

"'Bout as good as I look."

Carol put the tray of food down on the table next to the bed. "Brought you some dinner. You must be starving."

He turned his head to look at it, but didn't say anything.

On a sudden impulse, Carol leaned over him, ignoring the way he flinched as she came near, and kissed him lightly on the temple.

"Watch out, I got stitches," he said, frowning. She was surprised he didn't protest any more than that.

She looked down at him, weighing what she wanted to say. "You need to know something. You did more for my little girl today than her own daddy ever did in his whole life."

He turned away from her, clutching the pillow. "I didn't do anything Rick or Shane wouldn't have done."

Carol wasn't sure that was true—after all, neither Rick or Shane had done it. But she thought she understood Daryl. Like her, he was an outsider. Like her, he thought the others were somehow better than he was, although in a different way. And she wanted him to know that as far as she was concerned, he didn't have to feel less than anyone.

"I know. You're every bit as good as them. Every bit." She left him there, closing the door gently behind her.

Daryl lay in the bed a long time before he could bring himself to turn and take the food she had brought. He understood her gratitude, although he thought it was misplaced—he hadn't found Sophia, after all, just the doll … but he also felt a warmth at her appreciation that made him uncomfortable. Liking people, trusting them, led to being dependent, and that was something Daryl Dixon had never been comfortable with.

Still … it had been nice of her to make the gesture.