George sat on the bed with a slight bounce and was perfectly, apathetically content to watch him pace.
"Don't get me wrong, you get an A for effort, but I'm really not the kill my way out of the asylum sort of girl. Didn't seem to do you much good anyway."
This was classic George. No longer obligated to help or interact with him in any meaningful way. She wasn't the mothering type. Or the sisterly type. Or much of the helping type -- unless she had to be. But sitting around letting other people be pissed off, or happy, or sad? Sure. George could do that.
The asylum really had been a vacation of sorts. All her reaps were in one place, she got to wear comfortable clothes and fuzzy slippers and never had to do any laundry. It could have been worse.