Heather settles back where Rory deposits her, her hands clenching into fists. Whatever was numbing the pain initially - whether it was some sort of inbuilt anesthetic or pure shock - is wearing off, and her nails bite half-moons into her palms as she feels the what little blood remains in her face draining away.

"Don't like hospital stuff," she gripes through clenched teeth. "I don't like this." This meaning being here, having to submit to being prodded, the pain and the dizziness and the not knowing what it was that did it.