"Okay," Molly echoes, not wanting to admit to how reassuring that is to hear, though it's clear enough in her voice. All of these injuries speak for themselves, of course, and it's not like she could have done anything to Patrick, but she can't pretend that she hasn't worried anyway. When she was going over there without any real reason, when she was fucking dating him, it's too easy to imagine someone at least trying to say that she was asking for it, and with her head still this fuzzy, details just out of reach, the odds of this being written off if she doesn't get it right seem too high, however implausible that actually is. "That's — that's good."

The rest of this isn't, but they both know that. She pauses a long moment before she starts again, trying to look at him but not quite able to bring herself to. "He got something out from under the bed after he had us both on it. I... didn't know what it was then, but..." Swallowing hard, she falters. None of this is easy, but she fucking hates thinking about it, how she'd been in that bed before, how the nail gun could have been there the entire time, and wondering if he ever had occasion to use it before tonight. "He got on top of me, and..." She nods towards her shoulder, bandaged under her hospital gown, trying to ignore the way this turns her stomach. "He shot a nail into my shoulder. It was a nail gun."