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[isdelta]

It seemed like a long time since she had last thought about her mom.  One day she was a sort of dead beat mom who came around from time to time, left money on the kitchen counter for food and stuff, and then the next day she wasn't there

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[isdelta]

When she was first called down to identify a body she didn't really want to think that was actually a thing. Like, sure, she knew that on cop shows and everything that they would pull people down to personally ID someone if they weren't sure, if there was no formal identification on the body but she went down there thinking that it was some sort of joke, that they were going to show her something and she was just going to walk away. Her mom, in this place? Under some white sheet on some cold an impersonal metal table

[isdelta]

Dylan just sort of leans against him, her eyes open, blank, staring, sunken in to a dark, haunted hollow. Never before has she felt so old, so tired. She was so, so mad when her mother went away and suddenly she, Dylan, was thrust into a new role as adult, as someone who had to try to go to school and had to try and work in order to just to get something to eat. Dylan hated the woman, but her hate never extended to this conclusion and now she feels achingly lost, achingly guilty, it eats away at her insides, gnawing on her bones and kicking vicious feet into her nerve endings till it becomes a very real pain to her.

She opens her mouth to say something when he says that he'll take care of it. Oh, Andy, so big and so strong, he'd take on the world for her if she asked. Her arm slips around his waist and she leans into him, against the big and broad of his chest and shakes. Her fingers wrap in the fabric of his shirt and clench hard.

"It's not your responsibility."