Dawson was a Good Boy. He listened and turned and listened and listened and listened and turned and vacantly stared through America, but he didn't interrupt and he didn't presume to stop her. Space was good. Hugs were for later. Touch was for when he didn't feel like his insides were rotting worms and his mortal soul just the same.
"Okay, hun. I'll be here," he promised quietly. The police scanner was near, and he tugged the map over to try and understand it for the third time, to place memories of the layout with the skeleton on the map, the who's and what's they'd seen. Productivity was the least he could offer in return for her tale, even as the white noise of facts threatened to overtake any attempt at it.
lizbot
