Generally, from what hardships he experienced both before and after the world's end, Aaron has learned to treat everything as a joke. Maybe that's why he was one of the first Alexandrians to pick up on Daryl's sense of humor. If you don't take most of what people say with the grim seriousness they intend it, eventually, you'll hit upon something that is, in fact, a joke. He doesn't remember the first time he laughed at one of Daryl's verbal salvos. He just knows it happened, and he appreciated the unexpected levity.

Now is no different, but he still can't bring himself to laugh. His grin is tight and rueful, more sardonic than he meant it. Don't let this world make you bitter, his mother had once told him. Let it make you strong. More often, lately, he feels as though he's succeeded at neither task.

He stands, ready to follow Daryl down the halls of Hilltop's biggest property like a little lost animal.

"I always liked lite beer," he mutters. "Another strike against my taste." He clears his throat. "Lead the way. You're the tracker, right?"

Anything, anything, to keep from saying what's on his mind. When did he become one of those people?