Maya went completely still.

She turned around very slowly.

Leo was standing three feet behind her holding out a paper towel, at arm’s length, with an expression of enormous seriousness.

“Don’t cry,” he said again.

“It’s just a cup.”

His voice was higher than she’d expected, and rusty, like something unused.

Maya got down on the floor on her knees, which put her below his eye level, and did not grab him, and did not scream, and did not say oh my God, Leo, you spoke — because some deep instinct told her that the fastest way to send this child back inside himself for another two years was to make his voice into an event.

“You’re right,” she said.