Of course they did. Maggie doesn't trust her tongue to answer with something that isn't dripping with venom, so she doesn't try. It radiates off her, though - anger on his behalf, this little boy thrown to worse than wolves, decades too late. It's a good thing everyone involved is probably dead.

Better they just talk about today's hunt.

"I get half credit," she says, trying to tame that out-of-place fury into teasing. His hand's hard in hers, rough with calluses, but gentle for all that. That's Daryl, the softness in him preserved in small, strange places. "But you did a hell of a job out there, you know."