“What have I told you?” Your father hissed, irritated to repeat this lesson constantly. He viewed you as weak — as a crybaby. Reaching out, Dutch firmly grasped your arm — gripping the area just below the large dog bite which plagued your flesh. It was gnarly. It was bloody.

“You’re old enough to know crying is pathetic.” Your father huffed, shaking his head disapprovingly.

It was unclear whether or not he cared for your increasingly painful wound, or the fact you were a sobbing mess.