That smell, that terrible smell. Like the back of a butcher shop. Noam gagged just thinking about it. He felt his breath begin to go choppy, his head begin to spin. He heard Hersh telling him—no, not telling, ordering him—to get a grip on himself.

Get a grip on yourself.

Noam kept that thought. It was the only thing that prevented him from going insane.

It helped to breathe into his hands. A few minutes later, Noam felt his head clear. He glanced over at Hersh, who was lying on his back, hands under his head, his eyes wide open.

Noam knew he was making plans.

Get a grip on yourself.

Hersh and his plans—his evil plans. Noam hated, just hated his plans. But back then, after what had happened, he hadn’t been able to think up his own plans. All he’d been able to do was follow numbly. Somehow Hersh had managed to guide them to the right bus, no one inside giving them a second glance.

Everyone riding the bus had seemed like a lowlife, just like he was. People who carried their belongings in bags instead of valises. People who looked like they hadn’t had a bath in a long time. There’d been a woman, her face covered with acne. She had scraggly red hair and wore newspapers on her feet. There’d been a fat guy that almost took up two full bus seats. There’d been two skinny black teenagers, their hair in matted curls. They’d had real mean eyes, and whispered to each other as soon as he and Hersh boarded the bus. But Hersh had easily stared them down. No one had meaner eyes than Hersh. A few seconds later, the black guys had slumped back into their seats, ignored them for the rest of the trip.

No, there hadn’t been any chance to talk on the bus. But now they were alone, both of them camped outside for the rest of the evening, and still they weren’t talking about it.

What was there to talk about?

Noam knew his hours were numbered. After what he had witnessed the last few days, after what he had just done, he knew he was beyond earthly salvation, beyond Yom Kippur.