It could be hours, though it might just be minutes, that the woman stems her tears. She doesn't look at Anna, as the girl expected, with hatred or anger. There's a deep sorrow present, and something else unidentifiable. Like a candle too obscured by smoke to truly shine bright. And Anna doesn't – can't– blame her.
Anna reaches over and tugs a towel around herself; the woman slumps bonelessly against her. She seems so small and frail, so exhausted.
She had the best news, only to be destroyed by the worst night.
"Anna, baby. Where are you?"