“What do you want?” Dean’s voice was completely flat. Redding either didn’t notice or didn’t care. “You,” the man said, his eyes roving over Dean, drinking in every detail, like an artist surveying his finest work. “I want to know about you, Dean. What have those hands been doing the past five years? What sights have those eyes seen?” There was something disconcerting about listening to Dean’s father break his body down into parts. Dean is just a thing to you, I thought. He’s hands and eyes, a mouth. Something to be molded. Something to own.
