Joan sees something she hasn't in years: an opportunity to prove herself outside the realm of mechanical skill. And since none of the zombie motherfuckers here will let her be a mechanic, she may as well try something else. Blunt honesty in the face of tragedy has never earned her anything but cold shoulders and unhelpful platitudes. Maybe this is a test for him too.

"The first time, it was because I was wearing men's clothes. Not even for dikey reasons, I just needed pants and couldn't find any in my closet. It was just forced awake- sleep- sleep deprivation." She'd forgotten the word. "They made me watch a shitty video for forever, but they let me go."

She shrugs. She's had so much worse, it doesn't occur to her that the first incident is worth much complaining.

"Second time, this girl fucking attacked me, so I settled things. There's no use dragging out a fight, right? I ended it." Briefly, transparently, she looks to him for agreement, before remembering she'll never get it. Whatever. Moving on.

"I woke up back in that place, and I knew they weren't gonna come at me with anything serious, so I tried to get out. I made some noise, you know." All acceptable procedures; she's sure anyone in her position would have done the same. "And they injected me with... something. I felt like I was dead. Like nothing mattered. Have you ever seen Garden State? It was like that."

Of course all she remembers from Garden State is the antidepressants.