𝚁𝚄𝙱𝙸 𝙸𝙽𝙱𝙾𝚇;

[dadyl]

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Daryl Dixon, 53

It's Daryl, say what you gotta say.

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shall we call this a 🎀?

[pharmacy]

[ He knows it, but he might still need Daryl to say it. One more person has to say it, every once and a while Quentin feels like maybe he's starting to understand it at last. Still, it drives him deep enough into his thoughts that he flinches the next time the ax comes down. Daryl moves through a whole other swing while Quentin thinks, and the second crack of hatchet through the logs startles a murmured sorry, I'm sorry out of him. 

[ He turns to pick his bag back up, eyes on the ground, storm cloud trailing behind him as he lurches back towards the cabin. ] I'll take care of it. I'll get him out of here--tomorrow. Tomorrow, we'll be gone.