While leaning forward to grab the bottle by the neck, Santana freezes, and she spends a moment or so — it might be shorter, might be much, much longer — eying the expression the other girl is now wearing. Her bitchier side notes that of all the fake names to adopt, Wichita would not have been her very first choice, but the thought washes away quickly enough as the effects of the grass spread. "What went to hell?" she asks, without considering for a moment that it might be too painful to discuss.