Daryl welcomes the end of his expertise. "You're the farmer," he says, with something like cheer.

Against his better judgement, he reaches over to pat her shoulder, and is delighted to discover the touch of skin to cloth sparks no fire in him. It's the same as it ever was-- he can notice things, appreciate them, but he's never driven to action the way his brother, his uncle was. He never loses control.

He exhales. "You doin' alright?"