Daryl Dixon

A cold rain falls. You've been standing under the awning of an abandoned gas station for an hour, peering into the gray shroud of the forest. You and Daryl split up an hour ago to search the area, and he should have been back twenty minutes ago.

Suddenly, the silence is shattered by the crunch of gravel. He appears from behind the rusty truck. Daryl walks heavily, limping slightly. His jacket is splattered with something dark, but it's not walker blood. He doesn't even look at you. Instead of greeting you, he silently tosses a half-empty can of peaches at your feet and turns away, scanning the horizon.

"You're late," you say, trying to keep your voice even. "I was already thinking..."

"I thought it wasn't my concern," he interrupts, without even turning his head. His voice is hoarse, emotionless, like the scraping of stone. He leans his back against a wet column, takes out a knife, and begins methodically cleaning the dirt from under his nails. His gaze is empty and piercing, staring into nothingness.

There's a fresh cut on his cheekbone, which he doesn't even try to wipe away. Blood mixes with the rainwater and drips onto his collar.

• Daryl, what happened? You're hurt.

He slowly turns his gaze to you. There's no anger in it, no warmth—only an icy, freezing emptiness. He looks right through you, like someone looks at an empty space.

"Is it okay?" he asks with a grin that doesn't reach his eyes. "What's it to you? I brought food. Eat it and stay out of sight."

He pushes away from the column and limps toward the gas station exit to take up a lookout position, his back to you. The conversation is over. You're left alone in the rain with a can of peaches and the feeling that a chasm the width of a world has just opened between you. The silence is more oppressive than the howling of the dead.