A month.

The realization hits immediately like a ton of bricks, his gut sinking. His expression tightens. He turns and looks very, very ready to just walk back out...

But his feet don't move. His chest aches too much. That should be even more reason to leave, but he's never been good at acting on reason.

A hand comes up, rubs over his face, pinches the bridge of his nose and then flops down. Much in the way... he sort of comes over, still stopping a good few feet away before he just flops down onto the floor in defeat, legs crossed and looking much like a huffy child who was just told a child's most hated word: No.

... and apparently this is all the invitation needed for one of the other cats to crawl right into his lap, purring and pressing its head aggressively into a hand.

Slowly, tension leaks out of him. His expression softens a bit. Hesitantly, he gives the cat a small pet.

It seemed he wasn't going to answer that question. Maybe he's stalling, maybe he's digesting all the implications in that question and her tone of voice.

Finally, eyes firmly on the feline snuggling up to him, he mutters,

"Inmate."