There re few in the group with whom Erol could sit in an uncomfortable silence with, and Willa was one of them. Too often did he feel like he needed to fill pregnant pauses with some kind of sound, some kind of conversation. It was a fear of proving his worth. But when it came to Willa, Erol felt as if she was someone who did not expect anything from him. This was as true now as it was when she gracefully bent over his arm to stitch up a gash.  

Now hunched of a bowl of something-or-other that Mami had been able to whip up, they sat in silence. He studied the push and pull of her needle through an embroidery hoop, and the gentle swish of a loose end to the red ribbons on her wrist that followed it. Suddenly he was hit with the urge to conversate. 

“Those ribbons,” he started between bites. “They hold some significance?”