[He sighs, then scoffs, and frowns just ever so slightly -- if it weren't Kumagawa I probably wouldn't point it out. The heart in his throat pounds heavy, like the bass in a dubstep song. I don't feel like making a more culturally relevant simile so you're just going to have to deal. Inaudibly, he chokes on the heart -- it gets back down with some work, but there's nowhere for it to fall. His stomach's already dropped.

In the land of literal speech, he adjusts his tie slightly, once, twice, three times. It's a clear nervous gesture. His knees buckle a bit beneath Kumagawa's presence, but. She doesn't get that recovery speed just from her mother. He never actually goes down.]

My wife's not dead and neither is she. How do you know her? What do you know about her?

I'm not ignoring her. All this is for her.