Oquirrh freezes. No. No hospitals. Not again. They won't know her history, her reactions, her scars--

"L?" she tries again louder. Please, L, come explain why she can't go. Not without L or Jersey or someone who knows and can speak to the titanium inserts already in her shoulder and the horror of having it possibly broken. Someone who can say exactly how sick she gets on painkillers. Who can--

She presses her eyes shut and her head harder against the armrest. "Please," she whispers.