Daryl, Joan reasons, is from the south. She can think of few better olive branches that aren't actively offensive than the bullshit she's been brewing in her kitchen-- it's nothing magical, just sweet tea, brewed hot with sugar, chilled and poured into a large glass jug. (Joan has no clue the tea house she's been getting the shit from puts aphrodisiacs in their mixes; why would she ask, and why would the shop girl tell her?)

So it's with this under her arm that Joan approaches the carpenter's shop. She smells something that unlocks almost three decades of sense memory, and wanders toward engine grease and sweat. Joan looks over Daryl and his fucking bike the same way a gambler looks over a winning hand: with the kind of practiced disinterest that begs not to be noticed.

"That yours?"