"Had worse," was all Bethan said, without looking around, as she headed into the house. Admittedly, she hadn't had injuries much worse than this since she was a kid, but that wasn't the point. The point was that she didn't care. She could function like this, and that was the important thing.
She'd thought about taking Debra up onto the roof, if only to test her mettle, but the roof was her place, and the thought had passed quickly. So, instead, she led the other girl inside, up the softly creaking stairs. Her room was right at the top of the house, in the large, open space of the attic; without looking around, she walked past Dara's half of the room to sit on her own bed, facing Debra.
Even if the screen separating their halves of the room had been pulled across, Bethan's room would still have been big, and that only made it look emptier. Besides the two bookcases against one wall, and the wardrobe between them, the only furnishing was the bed, unmade and messy, and the handmade rug on the varnished wood floor. No desk, no bedside table, no chair, no posters on the pale blue walls. The only real sign that the room was lived-in was the water glass and painkillers on the sill of the roof window, and the laptop on her pillow.
"So," she said, when she'd been sitting there for a moment. "The hell do you want?"