Finally the men announced they were leaving for the Rosh Yeshiva’s afternoon lecture.

Rina looked around the room, wondering how long she should wait in order to make her leaving it appear unobtrusive. Chana was gossiping passionately. The woman knew about everyone and everything—a malevolent omnipresence. Finally Sarah suggested they go to chumash class.

Halfway to the study hall, Rina excused herself, claiming she had to check whether she’d locked her front door. It was feeble, she knew. She should have come up with something better and the skeptical look on Chana’s face confirmed it. But it was too late now. Let the woman’s tongue wag; this wasn’t the first time Chana had used it against her and it wouldn’t be the last.

She found him waiting by the side of her house. He looked terrible. She unhitched the deadbolt and let him inside.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“I need sterile gauze, a bottle of aspirin, any leftover antibiotics you might have, and a sterile, sharp knife.”

He struggled with his coat, but gave up. “Help me with this, Rina.”

She took off his jacket.

“Where are you hurt, Peter?”

“My right arm.”

She rolled up his sleeve, unwrapped the sopping wet dressing, then brought her hand to her mouth and gasped.

The flesh had turned brown except for a protruberance of mottled green pus.

“I’m fine, just get me a knife,” Decker said.

“Peter, you must go to an emergency room.”

“Just get me a knife.”

“Forget about Shabbos, Peter. This is life threatening. I’ll even drive you if you can’t drive yourself.”

“I’m not going,” he said loudly. “Just get me a knife.”

“By not going you’re committing an avayrah. Halachically, you have to go.”

“Rina, I don’t give a damn about halacha right now. I just need some relief.”

“Wait here,” she said. A few minutes later she reentered with a knife and a bowl full of steaming towels. “Come to the table, Peter. I’ll take care of it.”

“Rina, just give me the knife and get out of here.”

“You can’t excise the wound yet. It hasn’t formed enough of a head.”

He looked at her.

“Since when do you know about lancing pus pockets?”

“Come to the table,” she repeated firmly.

He followed her and slumped down in the armchair, grateful for the help.

“Stick out your arm.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to apply heat to bring up the head.” She dipped a towel into the steaming water, then wrung out the excess. “It’s going to hurt.”

“Can’t hurt any worse than it hurts now.”

But it did. It seared his flesh.

“How’d it happen?” she asked wrapping the arm.

“I was repairing the floorboard in the barn and an old plank of jagged wood cut into my arm.”

“I saw bitemarks,” she said.

He paused.