"Jack." The word was simple and abrupt, and offered no further information. The topic of her PTSD was something that, in her present mind, would never be broached with this foreign person, not for any reason. Charlie was perfectly happy with Dov, and the rest of the world, believing that her German Shepard was just another house pet, though an awful large one for living in such a small apartment. She could also swing it that he was a biological home security system that she had to walk and clean up shit after, but deep down inside she was genuinely affectionate toward the walking furbag.
Her eyes watched him, still blinking, but her gaze was unwavering and in a certain light could certainly seem a little unnerving.
"First off, asking for shit like that is fuckin' rude and most people would be offended. Not sayin' I'm not, but curiosity really ain't a decent reason to get people to tell you their life stories." She adjusted on the chair arm, leaning back on the chair itself while she pulled a leg up for comfort, setting her foot on the seat.
"And to be frank, I don't know what the fuck happened. One day, we're having my seventh birthday. Shit seems fine. Cake, Mom buys me a new dress, dad's filming the shit out of everything with this knock-off camera he bought at a garage sale. Next day, Mom's gone." Her voice was flat and unemotional, but that in itself said more than her simple explanation. That she was disconnecting herself from the memory of finding her father piss drunk for the first time, trying to understand this new person that she'd be living with for the next eleven years. But that was what she knew - she was more interested in what Dov had to say.