"You're supposed to rest. You're hurt, you have to rest," Rory told him, because after seeing her brother wince, it was just so much easier to switch to scolding mode. Doctor mode. He moved to make room for her, and it was her fault that he'd felt that burst of pain. Dennis was always thinking of others, even now, when shifting to make room for her had suddenly, painfully, reminded him of his fresh injury. Rory wanted to shake him, make him listen, so he'd just stop thinking of her. Rory had no reason to be first in his mind. No right.
"A dog," she said. It wasn't a question, wasn't even anything she needed a reply to. Rory just needed to say it. Dennis wasn't going into detail, and she had enough sense not to push. If he had been there...if Dennis had seen it when it happened to their father, Rory wasn't going to ask him to rehash those details.
Rory gave a short nod, as if she could process everything with a quirk of her head. As if anything would be okay that easily. It wasn't until Dennis spoke again that she felt sick. Painfully, horrifyingly nauseous, like her insides were rebelling against the rest of her body. It was just a jolt, a disgusting stab through her system. Because their father had died, and that was the message he needed to pass on in his final days or hours or moments.
She closed her eyes, drawing her hand up to her mouth without thinking. Without realizing how it would look, how any bit of her body language would be read by her brother.
And then Rory shook her head, turning back to Dennis even though it pained her to look him in the eyes. "He had no reason to be," she said quietly, fiercely. The man in front of her, he was someone to be proud of.