Carol kept close to the inn, figuring it would be safer than parading through the woods alone at night, and that it would be easier for Daryl to find her that way. She'd heard rumors of a survivor's camp (so to speak) in Washington, and since she had no idea where Rick and the rest of the group had gone, she'd headed in that direction. Off and on, she had traveled with small clumps of other survivors, some of whom she knew had not made it to Washington. Some she'd seen die right in front of her. She hoped Rick and Lori and Andrea and all of them were safe, even though she'd doubted she'd ever see them again.
And Daryl. She said a prayer for him every single night. That he was safe, and that he wasn't alone.
And after weeks and months of slow-going travel, she actually reached Washington. Apparently the camp was not a literal camp, but a prison. Which for her, sounded pretty good right about now. A prison meant security. Walls and heavy doors and maybe even electricity, though she wasn't holding her breath about that last one.
When she heard footsteps approaching, she grew still, tightening her hand around the knife she held. Just in case it wasn't Daryl.