April wants to scream when of course it's Ann who's there, but she literally can't. Scream, she thinks, just scream to prove I can do it. But she can't.

While people talked all around her, April realizes she's stuck there. It can't have been longer than an hour or two but something as simple as talking to people is impossible to figure out - what the fuck is going on and why can't I just tell Ann to go away? - and it feels like being a child all over again. She isn't in control of anything and that terrifies April more than anything else about all of this. At least if she broke her leg the possibility to yell at Ann and, likely, Andy would still exist.

The thought makes her eyes flicker to the door as if expecting him to follow in, but there isn't anyone there that intends on entering the room. Instead, April's stuck in here with a doctor who crouches and Ann's saying something to her parents but all of the words are a total mess in her head.

"She's-" she can make out that it's her they're talking about, "complications... test-" she can sort of tell what that means but it just sounds like another jumble.

"April," a voice from somewhere says to her.

Turning, unsure, she sees the doctor staring at her. April stops and gives what she thinks is a slight nod, but there's no way for her to tell if that's what happened. So April just slumps forward like she's listening.

"I need you to do something," the doctor says. Okay, she takes a breath, I understood all of that. "Do you-" but April forgets what the rest of the words even are.

For a few seconds everything turns blurry and hazy, just like those words and her right arm. Understand, she thinks hard. I understand. But of course her mouth won't take the time to figure out the signals and her brain isn't particularly interested in sending well-formed thoughts back to her. All of it makes her want to either strangle someone or curl up in a ball and escape, but the usual method of escape feels fuzzy and makes it hard to think.

"Understand," April manages to mumble shakily. It feels great, but she sounds like a tiny child. I understand and I'm not an idiot, she tries to will out but the only that comes out, again, is, "Understand."

The doctor eyes her and then speaks very clearly. "I need you to take-" pointing somewhere towards April, "your right arm, and touch your left knee."

Okay, April thinks, that's easy as hell. Any regular person should be able to move their right arm and touch their left knee, at least as long as they had those limbs. But the moment she thinks about it, and the words right and left actually process, none of it works. She looks at what she thinks is her left knee but after a moment of concentration April realizes she's been staring at her right. Then her left hand when she thought it was her right, but again none of it makes any sense.

She tries to get it to move - it, what it? - and comes into the same infuriating, awful roadblock: what the hell is her right? Again, that blurry mess of directions comes over her and April squints hard to look through it. All that comes up is a rough shake of her right side. It's the best she can do, and April sort of wants to cry.

The doctor stands and walks over to her parents. Saying something to them, Ann looks at her with pity like that's something she needs from her and her parents have shocked faces. Again, the words start to melt by her until April wants to curl up and get away from everything. Thankfully enough, she can manage to move her legs and do just that - ball up and avoid saying another stupid thing like understand. Understand, April repeats in her head or thinks she does because now she doesn't know if she's thinking the word or the idea or any of that whatsoever, I understand you but you can't tell what I'm saying.

Another five minutes must have passed, that's all, but to Andy they feel like hours within themselves. Each tap of his foot sends another series of awful nerves through him until his foot falls again. Tap and then a jolt, then he sweats a little bit, and before he knows it Andy's heart is practically beating out of his body. He doesn't anything about medicine, but maybe something about this was his fault. That's the only thought he has the entire time throughout the waiting. After those five minutes, Ann returns with a much less positive attitude and she isn't even hiding it.

"Hey, Andy," she says slowly, almost like he saw those zookeepers say to the animals. "I need you to stay sitting for a bit, okay?"

"Um, sure," he nods probably too quickly, almost getting whiplash from his nervous rocking. "Okay, okay, okay."

"So, now we know-" she takes a breath, "now we're almost positive it's a stroke, and that could mean a lot of different things. She's responsive and aware, but she simply can't communicate."

"What's that all mean?" he asks, wondering if he even wants to know.

"You can talk to her, but she won't necessarily say anything back. If she says anything it might be totally indecipherable, too," Ann's arms slump and she takes a step forward. "I'm sorry Andy. It's all here-" she points to her head, "and you remember what I told you about stuff that happens there?"

"Oh, um... you said that the central nervous system is a highly sensitive network barely protected by our big dumb bones, and that when things go wrong they go really wrong and it's hard to repair any damage done," he repeats almost from memory, because he does remember that. He remembers how bad brain stuff could be too. His granddad had something wrong up there, as well, but people just called him crazy back then and he never got the kind of treatment he needed.

"Yeah, that's right. I'm not saying anything that we know for certain, and honestly I shouldn't tell you any of this," she shrugs and takes another breath, picking at her sleeve as she talks. "We'll have to monitor her for the night and see if anything changes."

Andy nods along to her words, but he picks up something different this time. Before there was a feigned hope and a little smile that he knew was fake now, but Ann lost all of that in her last few sentences. He wondered if he should give up on that, too, but then Ann speaks up again.

"You can come in, at least for now," she motions for him and walks towards those doors he wanted to burst through a few minutes before.

When April sees him walk through the doorway she partly wants him to go away and another bit of her is so ecstatic she could jump out of the bed. He stands hesitant at the threshold, holding onto the doorway and peering in. If Andy was ever awkward or uncomfortable, he definitely is now and he looks at her parents and then at her again. He still doesn't say a word, but Andy stands at the doorway and looks at her.

She can't tell if it's pity or fear, but his eyes are full of something she's never seen in them before. The jovial playfulness is gone from his face and Andy looks almost scared for her, if April had to figure out what the hell it was. Why are you afraid, she tries to yell out but only slurs something, I'm the one stuck like this. It's true, though - Andy's standing there and if he wanted to he could ask her parents what's wrong. April can't. She can't just get up and ask someone to help her or tell them what's wrong if she even wanted to, so all April can do is stay curled up in her self-imposed catatonia and try not to look at him when he leaves and lets her to sit in her head, all alone.

Instead she sees him cross over to her parents, slowly again, and say something to them.

"April?" Ann's voice hits her suddenly, almost from nowhere in particular. "April-" but again Ann's words drift off in her head and smash around like senseless noise more than anything else.

"Ah... Away," she sounds out, grateful that she can at least say something even if it's in response to words she can't fully figure out.

It's so fucking infuriating, she thinks right then, to look up and see everyone talking and circling her like a wounded animal and all April can do - the only control she has at all - is to recede further and hope it would all pass. Ann does thankfully walk away, because April sees her go over to Andy and touch his shoulder. The growl that escapes is definitely from her, but April can't remember making that sound.

Andy turns around and looks at her before shrugging Ann off and sitting down in the little chair nearest the bed. Seeing him brush her off so easily was a good thing to catch, but she isn't going to bother turning to look at him. Instead, she's going to continue staring ahead through her laced fingers with half-closed eyes and wandering thoughts. Andy probably says something but she sure as hell can't figure it out.

Andy gets to stay for a little while longer for reasons he isn't sure about. April sits there all the same, though, with legs pulled up and knees at her chin. She doesn't look at him for a while, instead staring into the wall and it makes Andy wonder what she could be thinking about.

"I'm the worst friend ever," Andy says plainly, her parents gone for the moment. April still doesn't look at him. "I dunno how, but this is probably my fault, right? I probably coulda done something if I was there when this happened, but I couldn't."

She doesn't bother to turn her head. She's still balled up and Andy hates seeing her this way - there's no snarky comeback, no snide remark, and she isn't smiling at all. Maybe that was childish to hope for, but hey - if he was anything it was a hopeful child grown up.

"I'll stick around until you get better, though," he adds. "After that, when you want me gone I'll go."

For a few moments he wonders if anything got through to her at all. It was possible that everything he was saying wasn't getting processed right - something about her language and an aphasia, whatever that word meant - but Andy could keep talking all night if at least something made sense to her. April, then, turns her head slightly and looks at him. She doesn't smile or say anything, but she doesn't look away either.

"I mean, you'll want me to go," he nods as he talks at her more than with her. "You hate me. That's... okay, I guess, but I hope you'll be able to make fun of me by tomorrow. You can hate me out loud then, right?"

April tilts her head again and he thinks something might have gotten through.

"I could tell you stories-"

"Won't," she says in a fumbling tone. The word looks like it takes an effort for her to get out, but April doesn't look away from him. "Won't make you."