George stares at him.
Then go tell him you tolerate him. It’s a start.
I’m implying you should feel something about your father.
It’s statistically true. In fact, I could calculate the probability of—
George watches him go. Shakes his head. Grins.
You need something, bud?
I’ve been instructed to inform you that I tolerate you. And that I’ve calculated a 6.7% chance you could have died from the spring.