The crowd of many able, healthy men, and young women, who could help with the cleansing and burial ritual, averted their eyes. In fear of contracting the plague, no one came to Rebekah’s aid. Some sneaked away, others fidgeted with the tassels of their religious shawls. A few counted their prayer beads, their eyes raised to heaven in search of a savior. Some, like Heshmat the Matchmaker, who had found new cud to chew on, whispered that since Rebekah never had a happy marriage, the great show of distress she displayed was no doubt to hide some secret shame that time would reveal.

Eighteen-year-old Rebekah locked herself in her house, a seeming recluse from a pitiless world. She would dodge the curious questions of neighbors: How did the plague consume Jacob the Fatherless? Why didn’t his wife and daughter contract the pestilence? How did she manage to bury that heavy body? Time would cloud their memories. They would forget. When Gold Dust reached the marrying age, Rebekah would emerge into the bazaar, reappear with such splendor the community would have no choice but to acknowledge them. She’d flaunt her daughter’s beauty and find her a young man who had been taught to respect women.

Rebekah set to work searching the house for her late husband’s fortune. She tore the casings off the mattresses and pillows and emptied them of feathers. She pried loose the bricks from around the kiln in her bedroom and dug under the metal floors of her kitchen. She went to the stable and burrowed under the straw and mud. She descended to the basement and rummaged among the tools and molds her husband had used to fashion her jewelry.

He had left behind nothing but the stench of the burning kiln, the stink of his rancor, and the shame of poverty.

Overnight, Rebekah became a poor woman.

Soon nothing was left of the donkey but skin and bone.

Rebekah sold her jewelry, fancy clothing, and the box of trinkets: tools of a whore. When she had nothing more to barter, Gold Dust began to suffer from malnutrition. Her stomach swelled like the belly of their earthenware jar, her tongue became lined with cracks, her hair fell out in fistfuls, and she moaned endlessly.

When weak cries of hunger replaced Gold Dust’s sweeping laughter, Rebekah’s heart broke. She had endured her brand with patient dignity. She had crawled on all fours and whined like a donkey to protect her daughter. She would not allow her to die from hunger.