I'm in the hospital again, from a bullet wound that just grazed my shoulder. It's painful, but not unbearably so. It's more an inconvenience than anything.

Elliot's with me, sitting on a chair beside my bed when I wake up. I should be glad that he's here, but instead I ask, "Did you call Alex?"

He rolls his eyes. "She was across town. She'll be here in ten."

I smile sweetly. "Thank you."

A few moments later, the door flies open and Alex is standing there, relief written all over her face. Elliot leaves, giving us a few moments alone, and the second he's gone she runs to me and wraps her arms around me, leaning in for a kiss. Once she's sure that I'm all right, she steps back and folds her arms, glaring at me. "Your reflexes are getting rusty, Liv. You're supposed to shoot first."

I close my eyes. "I tried." It sounds a bit too plaintive for my liking, but it's true.

"You have no business on the street if you can't –"

"Alex. I'm fine. Honestly, you're mad at me for getting shot? You should be mad at that bastard who shot me!" I know she's only upset because she cares about me, but I can't help but feel indignant.

She lies down beside me on the bed, taking me into her arms. "I'm sorry, Liv. But for every bullet that grazes you, it fully pierces me."

"Do you ever think about kids?" I ask Alex out of the blue.

She raises her eyebrows. "What about them?"

I shrug. "Having them."

She's thinking about it, and finally she shrugs too. "I don't know."

"Alex Cabot doesn't know something? That's a first."

She rolls her eyes. "Ask me in a year . . . or two."

We order Chinese for dinner because both of us are too lazy to cook anything. It arrives quickly and I dish some noodles onto two plates and hand Alex a pair of chopsticks. She stares at me like I'm crazy and goes to get herself a fork.

I roll my eyes. "You have to eat noodles with chopsticks, Alex. That's just the way it's done."

She folds her arms. "It's not the way it's done for me."

"Wow, okay. I'll show you."

She glares at me. "No."

"Look, I know you're adverse to learning new things, but this is the right way to do it."

She sticks out her lower lip. "I lack hand eye coordination."

I take a few minutes trying to show her anyway, but she's incorrigible. I get the feeling that it's not that she can't use them; it's just that she doesn't want to. "Okay, fine, use the stupid fork."

She glares at me for one more moment, then picks up the chopsticks and expertly finishes off her noodles, looking so smug that I have to laugh.

I've always been afraid of drowning. I know it's stupid for Olivia Benson, who has looked death in the eye so many times, to be afraid of such a thing, but I am. It's not really a debilitating fear when you get right down to it; it's merely psychological. I'll still go swimming, but I'll be vigilant, and I'll be careful.

Some fears come from the unknown, but this one comes from something I know well, too well. When I was three or four years old, we had a pool in our backyard and my mother (who was probably more than a little drunk) was playing with me in the water. She would throw me up in the air and then catch me, and I would laugh and laugh. Which was all fine, until she didn't catch me one time, and I started to sink. I knew how to swim, but I panicked anyway, and I almost drowned.

Sometimes I have nightmares about drowning, but I wake up to find Alex beside me, and I think I couldn't dream of a better life preserver.

I wake up around three in the morning, and even though I'm half asleep, there's one thing on my mind: food. I'm hungry.

I carefully get out of bed so as not to wake Alex and take out a plate. I put a croissant on the plate and rummage around for some saran wrap. I wrap up the croissant and put it in the microwave, pressing start.

I go into the washroom to wash my face before I have my mid-night snack, and that's when I hear it. It sounds a bit like a dog being electrocuted and I run into the kitchen, wondering what the hell I did wrong.

To my horror, I find the microwave turning different colors. Pink, then blue, then orange – flashing – and I realize that the microwave's on fire! How the hell did that happen? For a moment, I'm preoccupied with the microwave, because it looks like fireworks are exploding, and I didn't know that explosions actually turned colors. Then I snap out of it, too afraid to open the microwave door, and scream, "Alex!"

She comes running, materializing by my side a moment later. "What the hell, Liv!" She opens the microwave and throws baking soda on the fire. It's out within seconds. She takes a wad of paper towel and picks up the charred croissant. "What on Earth possessed you to wrap your croissant in tinfoil?"

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