He sat there, his brain trying to make sense of the sentence. Lysa, the aforementioned deliverer of what-the-fuck-news, sat, waiting. She had repositioned herself so that she sat in with her legs criss-crossed. She pulled her short dress over knees, hiding the fresh diaper she was wearing. She yanked the bows out of her golden locks and her pig tails came undone, her hair falling to the side of her face. She wore the type of passive, uncomfortable smile of the hospital nurse having to deliver bad news to the family.

Her eyes remained immobile, patiently waiting for Dante to say something. Anything. To ask questions, to yell things at her, to break down and cry. Anything.