She leans into him, following his direction, and ducks her head so she doesn't have to see. She presses her forehead against the middle of his back and closes her eyes tight, listening to the whistling of the air and the sounds of them passing things so fast, they could be anything, there's no point in looking. She thinks, with a strange, weightless feeling, that she's never been this far east before in her life. She has no idea where they're going.

Eventually, the bike starts to slow, a relief miniscule in comparison to when Daryl dismounts and turns to the satchels, unknowingly showing her the teeth marks imprinted in his leather shoulder. The bite didn't break through the jacket, she's safe. He's fine.

She feels a little weak at the knees suddenly.

She copies him, looks for her own canteen, and gulps some water down.

"Thanks."

What's he looking for? She watches him rifling around for a few seconds before she leaves the bike standing, stepping toward the lookout over the hill- and winces at the drop off, reeling backward. Her hand finds a tree to touch, something sturdy. That helps. "... Where are we?"

Does he know? Or is he pointing his bike in what he thinks is the right direction?