Lincoln doesn't argue when she intends to walk, for which she's glad. She'd half expected him to, expected him to pipe up that he didn't mind if they took the bike, wouldn't want to see her strain her leg. She's thankful that Lincoln isn't the kind of man who would. For all that she knows he cares about her, he's always respected her right to privacy, her determination to keep this to herself.

If she wanted to talk about it, she knows he'd listen. But she doesn't. She didn't before, not wanting anyone to look at her with pity about something that nobody can change. Abby had tried her best but this is how things ended up, and Raven knows there's no fixing it, so there's no point in talking about it.

Besides, she knows that talking about this now would only lead to more questions. Her leg doesn't hurt but she can't explain why without lying or telling Lincoln about the little disc. She knows he'd look at her sternly, knows he'd caution against swallowing something that a random guy in a doctor's clinic handed her, but she doesn't care. It worked.

"People hate other people worrying about them," she says, giving him a wry look. She hates it, and she knows he does too. "You should know that better than anyone."