[It's what she wanted: to force Dean into a corner, to force him to choose between killing a fellow inmate, an attacker whose anger is - in Anya's view - wholly justified, and walking away from the torture of a helpless (not innocent, but now, in this moment, helpless) victim. But he's still just stalling, still trying to find a way through, moment by moment, still hurting almost as much as he helps. But moment to moment, if you never look over the edge at the awful spiral of extrapolated time, doing the best he can.

It's heroic and stupid and pointless; she is afraid and frustrated and she hurts, adrenaline and frantic, futile endorphins sanding the keen edges off her thoughts. The sharp plunge in her shoulder is almost a relief, a distraction from the more sensitive nerves of her mangled hand.]

I hate you.

[Gasped, but she'd scream it if she could, no calculated contempt now, just a raw, half-hysterical tantrum. Her remaining eye isn't looking at Bea.]

I hate you I hate you I hate you!