There was only one way Oliver could think right now that would have made the situation worse, and that was if Elizabeth had been home. As it was, Mrs. Nye was off on a mission, and though he missed her, in this moment he was overwhelmingly glad that she was not home to see her oldest daughter hand-delivered to their apartment by a Centurion who looked more than eager to pass Viola off onto her legal guardian and be done with her. Viola, who had snuck off campus, fell into some crowd at a rave, and blown up a car.
And now she was sitting on the family sofa, high as a kite and petting the agent's jacket like it was an animal. Which, Oliver thought bitterly as he looked upon it, was not a far stretch. "Take this," he snapped, yanking it from Viola's grasp and thrusting it grumpily in the man's direction. The agent wisely took that as his cue to leave, and Oliver was left with his high teenaged daughter and absolutely no idea what to do.
He knew what he wanted to do, though: yell. Very loudly. And so in anticipation of that happening at some point in the course of their conversation he extended his hypnokinesis toward his two younger children sleeping in their beds, intending them to stay that way.
At last, he stood before Viola -- having too much anger in him then to sit -- and stared down at her, arms crossed. The look in her eyes only made him angrier; she hardly looked as repentant as she should.
"-- Give me your hand," he said gruffly, holding his own out. "I'm not having this conversation until you're sober." He could certainly sense the drugs in her system -- and he could also flush them out. That much concentrated energy might tire him, but he could hardly think of being more exhausted than he was right now, just knowing what Viola had done.