Otter Creek a raft of otters

Needle felt a discomforted sensation at his admission, as if swallowing ice and feeling it plummet right down to her gut. She could not fathom a parent doing this. Or maybe, she could not fathom a father. Were they that different from mothers? She had grown up with two, after all, and perhaps she was lucky in this regard.

His voice had gone quiet. She could feel Stark’s memory of it—the pain, the fear, the anger—despite the robotic manner he recounted it.

If you deserved it, then so do I.

Her pace had slowed to a contemplative crawl. She was visibly repulsed by thoughts of him struck so terribly by his own father, shown in the way her hackles rippled with barely restrained fury. It was no wonder he remained here, trying to make his own new life, instead of returning to his home and finding out what had happened to him.

I hope he’s dead, Needle spoke ill of Stark’s father. I’d like to give his grave a good long squat.