I didn’t make any crying sounds. I let the tears fall down my cheeks and plop onto the bib of my dress, where they soaked into penny-sized patches. It was the same way I had seen Susan cry when we had been drinking milk at the handstand wall. Silent and still. I hadn’t understood it at all back then; it had seemed such an odd way to cry. I understood it now. It was the way you cried when you were tired to the middle of your bones, when you didn’t have enough left inside you to do anything else except cry.
