When I was Max’s age I also used to come to shul early every Shabbat morning with my dad. I’d sit with him here in the main sanctuary, quietly watching all the men praying, my eyes inevitably drawn to where Honey’s dad always sits. She and her siblings were usually squished two or three to a seat, jostling one another and loudly saying “shush”—until eventually Mr. Wine would release them to attend the children’s services. More likely they would run to the cloakroom, or the lower level where the kitchens are, or the stairs to the ladies’ section, or any of the other spots the kids in our synagogue like to hang out. That’s when I would whisper to my dad that I was going with Honey and before he’d even finished nodding his assent, I was down the aisle.

“C’mon.” Honey tugs my arm now as the prayer ends and people sit. “Good Shabbos, Mr. Eisner,” she says as soon as we get to his seat, wishing him a good Sabbath and offering her hand for a handshake.

“Good Shabbos, ladies,” Mr. Eisner says, shaking Honey’s hand and then mine. “So good to see you both again.” Honey and I have been away at sleepaway camp together for the last seven weeks.

“Next year we’ll send you a postcard,” Honey says with a grin.

“Marvelous!” Mr. Eisner says, his eyes twinkling. “Perhaps I shall send one back.”

“Even better, you can send us some candy,” Honey says, and I cover my mouth with my hand. I don’t know how she can be so bold, so chutzpadik—and with a grown-up!

But Mr. Eisner claps his hands together now as he beams. “Always negotiating, this one,” he says. “You strike a tough bargain, young lady. But it’s a deal.”

Honey laughs and offers her hand again for Mr. Eisner to shake and seal the deal, which he does. He puts out his hand to me and I give him a firm handshake too.

“So—” Honey says. “Any Yum-Yums today?”

“Please,” I add.

“For you two, of course,” Mr. Eisner responds with another beam. “You know I save them for my favorite kids.”

“Thanks!” we both whisper with gusto as he hands us the lollypops. Then Honey tugs my arm again and we run back down the aisle and out of the sanctuary.

“Oh, hi, Miriam,” Honey says, smoothly opening the wrapper of her lollypop as we pass by the cloakroom. Miriam’s still on the counter, watching a group of girls her age playing a hand-clapping game underneath the coatracks.

“Well, you won’t be getting those for long!” Miriam calls after us. “Soon you’re going to be sitting next to Aginéni and hoping she doesn’t offer you some cod liver oil.” Miriam laughs.

Aginéni is an old lady who sits in the front row of the balcony women’s section every Shabbat and festival, in a seat she staked for herself before our parents were even born.

“At least I’m not afraid of her,” Honey calls back. “Like someone I know.”