I’m not the only one awake. Tia, at the far end of the rug in Azariah’s room, is quietly snapping at whatever is burrowing into her fur. Snapping and snapping because she can’t reach it. But she won’t give up. For a second I heard Efrat cry far away. Now she’s gone back to sleep. It is even quieter than before. The refrigerator has stopped humming.

I’ll finish up in the kitchen and sit down to embroider.

There’s the news again, on the neighbors’ radio. Through the thin wall I can hear that Damascus is once again making threats. That’s the kind of thing they both like to hear. That there have been grave developments. That things have taken a turn for the worse. That tensions have mounted. News like that makes Yoni clench his teeth and his eyes get narrower and darker. Zaro’s eyes glow but first he turns pale, then he becomes flushed, then he starts to talk a blue streak. Just a rumor or a whiff of war is enough to make them both more dangerous, more handsome, more passionate, more alive to me. Like when they want to have sex and feel shame.

When Yoni can’t hold it in any more and starts to come, he beats his fist on the sheet and bites my shoulder. And makes an animal sound in a hoarse bass voice like an echo in an empty house. Zaro gives a quick yelp like a dog that’s been wounded. Then his mouth and nose drool and then there are tears. Their sleep comes from me. I accept them both. They are mine. The antelope is asleep. And the spear and the black warrior. When you sleep you are weak and good. I will wear my blue corduroy pants and red sweater and my hair is clean and light and I smell of almond soap and shampoo.

What is Damascus threatening? I can’t hear because little Assaf is playing his toy xylophone. He taps his stick. Tin-tin. He stops to listen. Tin-tin-tin. He stops again. And yet another time. It must be a cold rainy windy night in Damascus too.

Something with wings is flying around. Maybe it’s a moth. Around and around the overhead light. Burning itself each time and flying away. But each time wanting or having to come back. And burning itself again. Wanting what it does not have or need. Its shadow keeps flitting over the marble counter. Over the cabinet. Over me. Pretty little moth by the light, why don’t you listen to me and take a rest.