His body was soaked with perspiration. Squeezing his eyes shut, he bit his lip hard, tasting the blood as it trickled into his mouth. He could feel the knife blade slicing into the swelling. A stab of pain, then skin bursting open, exploding pus that soured the room with its fetid stench.

“Good,” he heard her say.

He felt faint, but male pride kept him conscious.

She began to bathe the arm in antiseptic. The pain was overwhelming and caused him to shiver. Tenderly, she dabbed his face while cleansing the open sore. Finally, she patted the wound dry.

“It looks clean, Peter. Keep the towel firmly pressed on the cut while I take a look in the medicine cabinet.”

She came back with two half-empty bottles of pills and a roll of gauze.

“These are penicillin tablets from when I had strep. Take two every six hours. Take a couple of aspirin, also. They’ll make you feel better and reduce the swelling and fever.”

She unfurled the gauze and began to wrap the wound.

“I love you,” Decker said.

“I love you, too, Peter. Promise me you’ll go to a doctor after Shabbos is over.”

“No argument.”

“Do you want to rest here?”

“No. It would look bad.”

“I don’t care—”

“I do. Finish wrapping this and go on to your class. They’re probably wondering what happened to you.”

She nodded and worked quickly. When she was done, she helped him on with his coat.

“You go first,” she said. “I want to clean up.”

He looked at the pus and blood splashed over the starched white Shabbos linens on her table and frowned. The odor of decay was still powerful.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said calmly. “I really wish you’d go to the hospital.”

“I’m all right.” He hugged her as tight as he could. “I feel better already. Thanks.”

“Peter, how did it happen?”

“I don’t want to get into it, honey.”

“Okay,” she said. “I won’t meddle.”

“You’re not meddling. I didn’t mean it to sound like that. I just don’t want to talk about it.”

She kissed his cheek. “You’d better get going.”

He kissed her back and left without another word, sucking in mouthfuls of air. Although his balance was unsteady, his pace was good. He had no intention of sitting through a lesson he didn’t understand, so he entered the main yeshiva building and headed for a small classroom in the basement. It was his favorite learning spot, and he’d hidden all the English translations of the holy books there. Taking out his chumash, he began to learn, trying to concentrate on the text instead of his pain.

Soon he became absorbed in the material, looking up references, checking sources, attempting to translate and understand the Hebrew which still eluded him.