He fucking hates Haddonfield, so coming here when there ain't even a trial on feels like shooting yourself in the foot. But Zarina says she can teach him some shit worth learning, and Daryl-- despite appearances-- is always eager to learn practical knowledge. He's not much of a reader, can't sing, can't remake the world into a better place full of hope and promise, but he can sustain it. Anything that keeps life trudging forward a little longer is good. Lock-picking, sure. He'd love to learn about lock picking.

So he finds a locked door in this suburban mist, this place that reminds him painfully of Alexandria, and he waits. In the sitting, he nearly falls asleep, eyes half-closed. If a trial starts, he thinks, it'll be over quick. That masked bastard can get him right between the eyes. Take him down like a walker; it's how he'd like to go.

But that doesn't happen. He wakes up on the porch to the sound of padded footsteps; Zarina, usually so sharply dressed, is in some kind of costume. It looks like a penguin.

"You look ridiculous." But the corner of his mouth twitches up, not quite a smile.