N'aw. [As if any of them were expecting a better answer. It's not exactly a triumphant return as Daryl slinks in through the gate, a backpack that's only marginally fuller than it was than before he left slung loosely over his shoulder.]

Snares were empty. It's slim out there. [And it's only getting harder. Daryl finds himself going further and further afield, far beyond the perimeter of the prison, just to try and fend off starvation. At this rate, they won't last.] Got some eggs. [He fishes three of them delicately out of his pants pocket, the grey, speckled shells only about half the size of his thumb.] Woodpecker, I think. Some snails, too. Cook 'em right and you won't be able to taste 'em.