It struck him as funny then. From Rock Hill to there was about seven hundred and fifty miles. Den had gone past over seven hundred miles of zombies to get there. All of those big cities. And he'd been bitten in Ossining. Which, if this was the prison, was laughably close. Oh that was sad. That was just sad. He'd have to be sure to laugh about it later when he felt better. If he could.
Den winced a little at “Walter.” Rory didn't know how much she hurt their father when she did that. How much it stabbed at him. How many phone calls Den had gotten years before with Dad on the other end subtly, desperately begging, pleading, fishing for some kind of affirmation that he wasn't a terrible father. That he wasn't the sort of father his children needed to disown. Or if Rory did, she didn't care. Or wanted to hurt him that much. Or really thought he was that bad. So bad that she didn't want any father. Den didn't know. He didn't know which was worse. He didn't want to have to figure that out.
“Yes.” Den said. There were a lot of words that should have came with that. How soon after the pandemic, he'd shown up. How far they'd gotten before that dog. How guilty their father had felt for leaving her in the first place. How desperately Walter had wanted to reunite them all as soon as he'd found them. How the last thing he'd wanted before the bullet was for Den to make sure his sister was alright. Other things. But they didn't follow. They got lost in the ether. Den didn't know why. Saying those things shrunk them. He didn't feel like he had room for following words anymore. They were too hard. Yes answered the question.