They picked up the canvas bags, locked the door, and left the studio. They had gone a block when the explosion occurred. Decker immediately hit the ground, but Marge turned around and stared in disbelief, mouth agape. The front window of Pode’s studio had blown away. Glass shards had turned the sidewalk into a deadly obstacle course, eddies of ripped photographs flying through the air like a snowstorm. The front door had burst into a pile of splinters. They heard screams. Someone could be hurt.

“You believe in God, Rabbi?” Marge asked.

Decker rose quickly and brushed off his clothes. “We’d better call an ambulance,” he replied, shaking.

He entered the study and took the chair opposite the Rosh Yeshiva. Schulman closed the tractate of Talmud he was studying and opened the Bible without uttering a word, then noticed Decker was empty handed.

“Where’s your chumash?” the old man asked.

“I didn’t bring it.”

The rabbi closed the leatherbound book and waited.

“I ate traif today,” Decker said.

“What did you eat?” Schulman asked.

“A Big Mac.”

“Was it good?”

Decker broke into a smile.

“Actually, it was terrible. The meat wasn’t tainted or anything like that, but it didn’t go down well.”

“Hmmm,” said Schulman. “If you were going to eat traif, why didn’t you splurge on delicacies—lobster, shrimp, filet mignon?”

Decker shrugged.

“I could never figure it out,” Schulman said, pondering. “When bochrim go astray, they sin in the most mundane ways. Instead of committing adultry with a beautiful woman, they have sex with the ugliest zonah around. Instead of dining in the finest restaurant in L.A., they go to Taco Bell. Such lack of imagination. It defies logic. Why did you aim so low, Peter?”

“I don’t know. I guess if you want to debase yourself, you don’t do it in high style.”

The old man smiled.

“So, my friend, I enjoy talking to you, but this is not a confessional. I am a teacher. If you want to learn, I will teach you. If you want to ruminate upon the meaning of life,” Schulman pointed upward, “talk to Him.”