They visit Laura's friend's mother with the G.I. eyes, who even in hospital still brushes her thin hair over her head when the doctor comes into the room. They visit her together in their new bangs with cards and chocolate she cannot eat. With her yellow damp-looking skin and her yellow undereyes, Laura's friend's mother tells them the nurses do not turn her enough on the bed, shocking knowing the cost of the room. She asks for her mirror in her airy low voice, a viola with scraped-thin strings, and says to Laura's friend my mascara while Laura eats the chocolate. Perhaps my daughter told you, she says in English touching tiny brush to lashes, I am half American. The weak sun coming in through the window gives no heat even if she turns her back directly against it but outside the hospital the day seems warmer.