“Of course you can,” said Laban. “You have to. Because as soon as I can, I’ll be out with the men, and you’ll have to be able to talk to Father, too.”

For three days, Laban and Rebekah spent every spare moment together, working out a set of pictures they could draw with a stick in the dirt. Some of the words were easy—each of the animals could be drawn quickly, as could crops, articles of clothing, pots, baskets. Day and night were easy enough, too—the sun was round, the moon a crescent. Water was a bit more of a challenge, but they ended up with a drawing of a well.

“What if you want to say ‘well’?” asked Rebekah.

“Then I’ll draw a well,” said Laban.

“What if you want to say, ‘There’s no water in the well’?” asked Rebekah.

“Then I’ll draw a well, point to it, and then rub it out!” Laban was beginning to sound exasperated.

“What if you want to say, ‘The well has been poisoned’?”

Laban pointed to his well drawing and then pantomimed gagging, choking, and falling down dead. He opened his eyes. “Well? Do you think he’ll get it?”

“That can’t be the way Uncle Abraham does it,” said Rebekah.

“We aren’t trying to write to Uncle Abraham,” said Laban. “We’re just trying to talk to Father.”

“What if you want to say, ‘I’m afraid there might be bandits coming but Pillel says they’re just travelers and there’s nothing to worry about but I think we should gather in the men and sleep with our swords’?”

Laban glared at her. “I will never have to say that,” he said.

“How do you know?”

“Because I would just . . . I would just tell him that bandits were coming and bring him his sword.”

“No!” shouted Rebekah. “The men would know it was you who decided and not Father. And they can’t follow Father into battle anyway, so it would have to be Pillel in command at least until you’re tall enough to lead the men yourself, and anyway the whole idea of this is to help Father keep the respect of the men, and if you aren’t telling him the truth and letting him decide then they won’t respect him or you and they won’t trust you either and then we’ve lost everything.”

It was obvious Laban wanted to argue with her, but there was nothing to say. “Some things are just too hard to draw,” Laban finally admitted. “But you’re right, we have to try.”

“I think writing isn’t worth much if you have to be right there to make faces or fall down dead,” said Rebekah.

“There’s a trick to it that we don’t know.”

“If priests who are dumb enough to pray to a stone can do it,” said Rebekah, “we can figure it out.”