He doesn't want to sit. He doesn't want to sit, but the clear cut path that Daryl carves for him is still better than standing and pacing like an asshole. Quentin sinks ginger and silent next to him and follows suit with the grass--except that Quentin's fidget is more tearing up thin clumps and break them into inch-by-inch pieces. No one has to tell Quentin he cries easily, he damn well knows. Even now, the smell of exposed dirt pushes the anger and frustration and confusion (the images of people jerking, dying, of Daryl--) up to the surface of his eyes. It wells there, waiting. 

"Triage." He grinds out. He's listening. Not looking, that's too much! But listening.