He would do it. Her firstborn—brought to her by God. If it was meant, if it was basheert, it would be he who would save Noam. God had deemed it so. She felt this as surely as she had felt his little feet kicking in her womb. As surely as she had seen his face emerge from her body, a head full of bright orange hair, cheeks sunburn red, his head misshapen and bruised from a long and painful labor.

The doctors had considered taking him out by cesarean. But her father had remained steadfast that she deliver normally. A cesarean would have left a scar, a telltale sign to her future husband that he had not been the first.

At the last minute, he had saved her, had come out on his own. His downy soft body molded with muscle even at birth—long limbs, big barrel chest. Nine pounds, twenty-three inches. But what she had remembered most was his temperament. He never cried—only let out small whimpers to remind everyone that he was a healthy newborn. The doctor even remarked upon it.

Big guy seems pretty happy.

Frieda heard deep soft sobs. She thought it might be Breina in the next room and she should go and comfort her daughter-in-law. Then she realized that the sounds were coming from her own throat.

Ezra’s three sons shared a room that was cramped but meticulously neat. The beds were made, the closet was organized; even the computer and work area were free from clutter. Decker asked the boys’ secret to keeping a clean desk.

Boruch let out a breathy Eeeema.

But there was a note of affection in his voice.

All three headboards touched the same wall, lined up like a hospital ward. Sheets tucked in, the pillows plumped and rolled under the top cover like the stuffings of an omelet. Above the headboards were three rows of bookshelves. Most of the space was devoted to Hebrew and religious books, but there were about a dozen textbooks of secular study. No posters or art work adorned the wall, the sole exception being a framed picture of a small elderly bearded man in a big black hat. He had a round face, scores of wrinkles, and crinkly eyes that exuded a physical warmth.

“Rav Moshe Feinstein, alav hashalom,” Aaron said.

Decker nodded, recognizing the name. Rabbi Feinstein had been the leading Torah scholar of his day, a man noted for his exceptional kindness as well as his genius mind.

He turned away from the picture. The boys were sitting on their beds. He said, “I’ll try to put everything back the way I found it, but I’m going to have to go through all the belongings.”

The brothers nodded understandingly.

Decker said, “In the meantime, I want one of you to turn on the computer and bring up any files that might be Noam’s.”