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Summary
“Your brother was Dirk Strider,” Vantas says, and shifts in his seat like he’s getting comfortable. He extends one leg out under the console table, his heel resting almost casually against the brushed-metal floor.
It isn’t a question, so Dave doesn’t respond. He exhales slowly and thickly through his nose, focusing a couple of inches above Vantas’ head. He doesn’t want to look straight at him. Not if he’s going to talk about Dirk.
“I knew him,” Vantas goes on, his tone softening not at all. “I flew with him, back during the first years of the rebellion.”