“Pity,” Miss Schumann signed, frowning in a good-natured way.

Harold made his cross face and signed back, “What?”

Smiling as she looked around Harold’s room, his new room, his perfectly sound-proofed room, “You regain hearing then hide from all sound in here.”

“Not all sound,” he signed back. With delicate grace he pressed the play button on the old CD player his mother had found for him. Gentle strings hummed their lilting melody, Brahms’ Lullaby. Rising and falling came the waves of melodious sound, ushered forth on a soft bed of deeper tones. Harold sat cross-legged on the floor and smiled.

Miss Schumann joined him on the floor and signed, “Lovely.”

Harold nodded, “This sound is good.”

“Yes,” she replied, hands inadvertently keeping time to the swaying music, “but we are here to work on your speech.”

Harold frowned, his hands moving harshly, “That sound…” He shuddered a little, “That sound is not good.” As the music died away, he signed slowly, eyes downcast, “I am not good.”