A/N: Enjoy.


They have a routine now, more out of necessity than anything else. After school Cat and Tori meet in the parking lot, get into Tori's car, and drive the thirty-six miles to the Children's Hospital at UCLA. They park in the parking garage and go up to the first floor waiting area.

The first day they were there, they were clueless as to the routine. They had no way to know that the fifth floor didn't always accept visitors. Sometimes the whole floor was on "lock-down," and no visitors would be going up until the crisis was over. It was hard to wait in the cheerful waiting room, with its big statues of Sesame Street characters and the bookshelf full of kids' books and the TV in the corner playing animated films, unsure if they would spend their afternoon and evening waiting for an opening that never arrived. It was all too saccharine for Tori; of course, Cat loved the movies.

After eight days the afternoon receptionist knew them by name, and tried to tell them in advance if they were going to be there for awhile. Sometimes, if they had a long wait ahead of them, they'd go across the street to a skuzzy diner and eat pancakes – because pancakes are comfort food.

Today, day fifteen, the receptionist gives them a tired smile as they come in. "Fifth floor went into lock-down about two hours ago," she says. "Two new patients. Might be awhile. I'll let you know if anything changes."

Cat looks like she's going to burst into tears again, so Tori pulls her over to a quiet seat in the corner. "It's going to be okay," Tori says, that comforting lie that's gotten her through so many conversations with Cat.

"I hate this part," Cat says, keeping her eyes on her shoes.

"Me too."

"She's all alone up there," Cat says.

"I know."

"I wish we were up there."

"I do too. Maybe it'll be a quick wait."

"Yeah, maybe," Cat says, but she sounds unsure.

Tori unzips her backpack and pulls out her geometry workbook. There's no law against doing homework in a hospital waiting room, but she somehow always feels strange doing it. Half the time she finds herself drifting, drawing proofs that don't make any sense. She'd never admit it aloud, but her mind's on Jade – she's come to a sort of understanding about the mean girl. They're all on the same side now, and that's all that matters.


In the psych ward, it's not uncommon for someone to be crying. Most of the girls cry all the time, but in dignified, girly ways. They sniffle and blot tears from their eyes with the collars of their expensive T-shirts. It's almost worst than showing real emotion.

But this time when the lock-down is announced over the PA system, Jade hears someone screaming. Wailing, unquenched, pure and aggressive, with only the briefest pauses in between for breaths. Whoever it is, it's not one of the rich bitches.

Jade stands up – plainly against the rules during lock-down – and leaves the day room. What are they going to do, lock her up? She pushes the door open and looks out into the lobby.

Whatever she was prepared for, it wasn't the sight that met her eyes.

Between the elevators was a purple wheelchair, and in the wheelchair was a dark-haired girl, held in by a series of straps and harnesses. The girl's arms were out to her sides, frozen spastically as she jerked back and forth in her chair, screaming, tears streaming down her face. With each rock the wheelchair's little front wheels come a fraction of an inch off the ground, a pause during which the girl sucks in a new breath and begins screaming again.

There is no one around, which surprises Jade even more than the girl's presence. There's always someone watching you in the psych ward, trying to make sure that no rogue pens or shoelaces snuck past the diligent eyes of the staff.

Jade strides across the lobby and grabs a chair from one of the visitor's areas. She pulls it up next to the girl in the wheelchair and sits down.

She doesn't say anything. There's really nothing to say.

After a moment she brings one hand up and takes the girl's right hand in her left.

Twenty minutes later, the girl has quieted, slurping breaths in through a phlegmy throat. Her jerks in the chair have become less; the wheels are all on the ground. Her face is smeared with tears and sweat and unhappiness.

"Hi," Jade says softly, when she feels there's an opening in the silence. "I'm Jade."

The girl rocks back in her chair and jerks her head to the right, to a switch mounted to her head-rest. There's a clicking sound, but nothing happens.

The girl howls.

"It's okay," Jade says, and then laughs. Startled, the girl looks at her. "Sorry, but that's the biggest lie I've told lately. Things obviously aren't okay if you're here, are they?"

The girl snuffles and clicks the switch again.

Jade turns to face her and realizes there's a cord running out of the switch, a cord that's obviously supposed to be connected to some device, judging from the plug on the end.

The girl jerks her head against the switch.

"Jade," one of the psych techs says. "What are you doing out here?"

"Did somebody take this girl's computer?" Jade asks, holding up the end of the cord.

"That's not really any of your business," the psych tech says.

Jade stands up. She's at least eight inches taller than the psych tech. "Did somebody take this girl's computer? I think she might want to say something."

"When Lily's finished with the intake process, I'm sure they'll…"

Jade cuts her off. "So she just can't speak right now? What kind of bullshit is that?"

"Language warning."

"You took her voice away," Jade barrels on. "That's not fair!"

As if in agreement, the girl clicks the switch again with her head.

"Go back in the day room," the psych tech says, "or face a Consequence."

"I'm not going anywhere until she has her computer back. Don't you see how scared she is? Wouldn't you be scared if you were alone in this hell-hole of a hospital, unable to tell anyone how you felt? Isn't that what we're supposed to be doing here – getting in touch with our feelings? Sharing our feelings?"

"I believe your tone is disrespectful to the Program."

"Damn right it is," Jade says. "What kind of a dumbass program is unfair to its weakest members? You're all about us getting better – but I don't understand how you expect us to do that if you stack the deck against us. What utter shit."

"Second language warning."

Jade rolls her eyes. "I'm not afraid of you. You can't scare me."

And she sits back down and takes up the girl's hand again. She's not quite sure when she became somebody's advocate, but she's not going anywhere.

And although she's pretty sure it's just a muscle spasm, the girl's hand closes around Jade's fingers, warm and heavy and grateful.