Wrong thing to say. His eyes hardened and he lifted the bow a little higher from where it had been drooping. The four inch metal spikes jutting out of the foam at the tips of the arrows visible with the flash of a lightning.

"No you ain't," he growled, jaw tightening. Hatred for the sight of her, for the way his mind was playing tricks on him when he had people to watch out for, visible in his eyes.

She wasn't real. She wasn't there. He knew that. She was probably a walker. Stuck in the mud where she'd fallen and trying to get up. One with blond hair and a frame still meaty enough to pass for living. Maybe he'd been getting pelted too hard by the hail and just hadn't realized how much they'd been addling him. And this, this vision of her, this ghost, was his punishment for foolishness.

But as much as he wanted to release the string, set one of those arrows right into her eyes, he couldn't bring himself to. The only good walker was a dead walker, right? Except his head was playing with him and he knew he couldn't really bring himself to fire. She'd been dead in his arms once already, he didn't want to see it again. He had to wait until he saw the walker underneath. Had to wait it out.

Bow at the ready. Eyes hard.