That she naturally argues back is a good sign, a relief. Abby gives a gusty sigh. She says, "Can you sit down for a second?" and adds, "for me," to make Clarisse actually consider it. Thank god this place is full of beds, huh. If they were going to take a couple knocks to the head each at least it was in the infirmary.

Barrow is being shuffled out of the room behind them, Lazar's arms roped underneath of his own, and Abby finds she can't turn to look; a bruised pride can hurt worse than a broken nose. She leans back from Clarisse's fingertips brushing her face. "It looks worse than it is."

And will look worse later — she can feel the break across the bridge and some sore, tender place behind her eyes is already throbbing but there's little she can do about it right now. A problem for future Abby. As for right-now Abby: is Clarisse sitting? She eyeballs her before crossing the room to find something she can wipe her face with that isn't her own arm. "Barrow happened. He knocked the door down and took you out at the same time — Lazar had to come in and back me up after this."

This being the state of her and the roll of bandage she's just torn off to wad up against her nose.