Silence.
Lying there, with her face upturned and her eyes closed, a stream of quiet tears found their way from under Miss Kaufman's closed lids, running down and toward her ears like spectacle frames.
An hour ticked past, and two damp pools had formed on her pillow.
"Asleep yet, baby?"
"Almost, ma."
"Are you all right?"
"Fine."
"You—you ain't mad at mama?"
"'Course not, dearie."
"I—thought it sounded like you was crying."