Infection is what kills most often back home; rotten mouths of rotten teeth tearing veins, poisoning the blood. He knows to take it seriously, and since they're in the land of plenty he's not going to turn down an ounce of caution. Besides, he's loath to admit it but he kind of likes letting her take care of him. Not everyone can get away with it, but Carol has been doing it long enough without giving him much choice that it's... Comforting. He might die before he said anything to that effect, though.

He trails along after her quietly. If circumstances were better, he thinks. she'd probably crack a joke about taking him to her room, though after last week perhaps it'd still be too soon, too uncertain. It more or less mirrors his own-- neat and sparse and heavily armed. She's got more of everything else; Daryl's mostly got weapons, it's what he does best.

"Smart man," he murmurs, sitting beside her and obediently offering his hand, flat and palm-down, not missing her hesitation.