Mac tried to focus better, but her chest was hurting so bad. She didn't want to cry, but her eyes were tearing. She hadn't been this injured, well, probably ever. If she wasn't holding her bad arm with her good, she'd be holding her ribs as if they depended on her to keep them in place. She looked at the bed but was actually afraid to try and sit on it they way she felt.
"First thing's first," she got out between shallow breaths. "I want to be able to move my arm." Her tone was no longer harsh. It was somewhere between a whimper and a defeated whine. She felt useless with her arm dislocated. Mac assumed she could think better if she had the use of both arms. "Then, I would like to breath better, please."