Alena has always been a direct woman, really, so once she's sorted out the papers she wants, holding them just a little tight to keep them from shaking, her eyes return to Tyler's. The hollowness doesn't--can't--leave, but it's joined by a certain quiet sense of something like pleading.

"I guess you-- don't remember me." Which doesn't sound like a point of pain so much as inconvenience, something else to be just a little exhausted by. "But you came through just about nine years ago." A brief, unconscious glance toward the door. "And it was-- just the one night, but we were-- together before you left."

Beyond the door, Eliana is stuck trying to figure out exactly what to do with her hands. They're not-necessarily-welcome guests here, after all. She's heard from friends about finding fathers, after all (and her mother's said it won't be like that, that she remembers him well enough, that he'd been sweet and gentle and that's a good sign). Actually bending to pet the dog feels wrong. So does actually taking a cookie.

Being addressed, at least, she knows what to do with. Her chin lifts just a little, like answering a question in class. "No'sir. It took four hours."