There's no time to see how Daryl's doing or whether the boar's gaining on her. She runs in a straight line, straining forward, eyes on the ground in front of her. If he kills it, she doesn't know. If all his arrows miss, it doesn't matter. Either way, she runs.

She cuts her palm as she scrambles into the truck bed, leaving a streak of blood behind as she hoists herself onto the roof of the cab. The pain doesn't register, only the way her hand slips when she tries to grip Daryl's. She's breathless and sweaty, can barely hear hoofbeats over her pulse in her ears. "Shit."