She stands straight, as if the scars on her face, her inner arm, as if the healing bullet-wound on her right calf and the diminishing of her once pregnant were marks of pride. Survival. Maybe they are.

Still, his snort and amused comment warm her enough to smile back. Not broadly, butrueful and amused.

"I don't know, define worse," she says. Then she adds, "I've never had little things like this. But I'm with you. Though maybe I'd a few more."

One for each of her sisters.