River looked up from the papers scattered across his desk, his piercing blue eyes meeting hers.

“Tiffany,” River said. He gestured to the leather armchair across from him. “How are you holding up, sweetheart?” he asked.

She moved woodenly, sinking into the chair. Its softness felt wrong, too comfortable for the weight of sorrow pressing down on her shoulders.

“Not great, Dad,” she said.

River nodded, his silence an invitation for her to continue. But the words wouldn’t come. ...