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"What are you thinking about?"
The silence rings in Tamar's ears in response to her question, but she's undeterred. "I can see that you're awake, too. If we talk for a few minutes, maybe we can tire each other out enough that we can get some sleep."
Mary sighs, and sits up, then thinks better of it and lies back down. "You don't need to tire me out," she says. "I am tired."
"Then why are you not asleep?"
"There's a difference between being tired and sleepy."
Tamar is neither of these things at the moment, but Mary's usual half-condescending tone will make her feel tired before too long. "I suppose," she says. "Well, maybe after we talk for a few minutes, you'll start to feel sleepy."
"Or we'll wake up Ramah."
"When Ramah sleeps, she dies. Remember how she took a nap when we were visiting Nathanael? If Nathanael doesn't wake her up, nothing does."
This, at last, makes Mary smile, instead of staring at the wall with a lifeless expression.
"So what are you thinking about?" Tamar asks again.
Mary shakes her head, and Tamar's heart drops, assuming that Mary's going to make her lie in silence for another few hours before she can finally drift off, but instead, Mary says, "You go first."
"Mostly," Tamar answers, "I'm thinking about how to get you to talk to me."
Mary smiles at this, too, and Tamar gives herself another mark on her mental tally (which she keeps against her own will). "You think too much of what I say."
"Everyone thinks too much of what you say. There's something about you that makes it seem like even the nonsense you speak is noteworthy."
"Then why do you want me to keep talking?"
"Just because I'm aware of it doesn't mean I'm immune."
Mary turns towards Tamar, the first indication that she intends to keep this conversation going for longer than a few moments. Tamar is reminded of that tiny room the three of them were stuck in before Matthew lent them his house, and she almost wishes for that room again, only to be closer to Mary. "Do you really think that about me? That what I say seems noteworthy?"
"That's the part you focus on? I said that you speak nonsense, too."
"I already knew that."
Tamar laughs, which makes Mary giggle too; a remarkable sound. Nothing that could pass those lips could be unremarkable, Tamar has found.
Once she's caught her breath again, Tamar says, "I'm oversimplifying it. Yes, I think that you're hard to not listen to, but only half of that is because of the way you say things."
"What's the other half?"
"You're you, and I'm me, and I've grown used to listening to you."
Mary scrunches up her nose. "Is that an insult?"
"Half of one. And half of a compliment. It depends on how you think of it."
"How do you think of it?"
"It's just a fact. When you talk, I listen." She pauses, then adds, "Even when I know you're saying nonsense."
Mary pulls her blankets up, so her mouth is hidden, and Tamar can't tell whether she's smiling. A tragic loss.
"What are you thinking about?" Tamar asks a third time.
"Mostly," Mary says, her voice muffled by the blankets, "about you."
And that phrase, in Mary's voice, is remarkable.