Rory liked to think she was a controlled kind of person. She had the ability to hide her emotions, only let out what she wanted someone to see. She needed that ability. It had been reasonably useful when she was still a doctor, when doctors actually worked in hospitals and delivered bad news to people who were not already expecting it ninety-nine percent of the time. The apocalypse made good news into the thing nobody expected, the thing that made them nearly wince as surprise filled them. Rory used to be good at delivering any news, though. She used to keep it together, show sympathy without being fully consumed by it.
But right then, there was no way to detach. When Dennis joked with her, joked about his potential survival, Rory did wince. Once again, her eyes snapped shut and her breath came out with a tremble. This wasn't like her. So many people had died on her watch, so many people were beyond saving because of zombies, but this was her brother.
She shook her head, looking back at him with a frown and a slight glare. "That isn't funny. You aren't dying. I'm not letting you die." Rory tried to sound firm, tried to fan the flames of her fiery personality so she had a bit more fight in her tone, but she was scared and she was sad, and she knew she was helpless. Nothing she could do would save him if he wasn't immune already.
And then Dennis was talking about their father, about his reasons, and Rory shook her head again, frustrated by their dead dad's feelings towards his daughter. "You were always the one to be proud of. Always," she insisted, turning her hand over immediately to push her fingers between his, to squeeze tight. Instinct might've told her to recoil, but Rory wasn't listening. Rory wanted him close.
"A year and a half," she repeated, because repeating was apparently necessary every time he added some small detail to the story. "Dennis...what about everyone else?" He hadn't mentioned his wife or his daughter.