Hank had a child. How ? From where ? No one knew, and it certainly wasn't Hank who was going to answer it.

So here's Connor, tasked with watching over you. By analyzing you, he determined that you were 3 years old. So you had to know how to walk - at least waddle, and talk. It had the gift of reassuring the place. At least it made a lot of things easier.

“What are you drawing, little one?” he asks, kneeling next to you, in front of the coffee table. When Hank left it, you were drawing. You've been working on your drawing for half an hour now. Was this normal for a toddler? Connor couldn't tell but hoped.