Bluma had no such reminder.

And, with a shock, Yehuda Leib realized that they’d become separated. Where had she gone? He could no longer see her or hear her beside him, and he wanted to call out, to ensure that she was still near.

“Bluma?” he whispered.

All around him, the ears of the dead gaped and flexed at the sound.

A soft, sharp shushing came from the pram before him, and quickly, Yehuda Leib recalled Mammon’s warning.

He must continue on in silence.

And after an interminable age of pushing through the suspended bodies of the dead, Yehuda Leib saw a glimmer of light ahead.

He was nearing the end.

Soon there was only one hanged man remaining between him and the Dead City: a tattered fellow, more bone than skin, in a long black coat and the bullet-pocked uniform of a soldier. A single gold tooth gleamed in his fixed and smiling face.

But something was wrong.

Everything was still.

Bluma was not here.

Where was Bluma?

With a start, Yehuda Leib turned back over his shoulder. The only sign of life in the dense forest of the hanged was the swaying of bodies where he had pushed his way through, and, presently, even this stilled.

Where was she? Where was Bluma?

Ahead of him in the pram, Yehuda Leib heard Mammon whisper a thin warning: “Boy…,” he said.

But now Yehuda Leib had begun to panic. Had she turned aside? Had she turned back? Had she been caught in one of the low-hanging nooses?

“Bluma?” he called. “Bluma!”

And his voice echoed out through the night as loudly as the report of a cannon:

Bluma!

Bluma!

Bluma!

Yehuda Leib heard Mammon let out a long, low sigh.

Slowly, each and every one of the hanging corpses turned, revolving in their nooses until all the eyes of the Gallows were staring directly at them.

There was a long and terrible silence.

And then Bluma came crashing out through the corpses, eyes wide in fear and confusion.

Yehuda Leib turned toward the outskirts of the Dead City and began to run, Bluma following close behind. They didn’t pause to look back until they were well past the first houses at the edge of the Dead City.

But when they did, Yehuda Leib felt his heart fall.

The final hanged man—the gold-toothed soldier in his bullet-pocked uniform—was nowhere to be seen.

—

“I told you,” said Mammon, his voice drawn and angry, “to be silent.”

“I know,” said Yehuda Leib.

“And of all the things to yell out…”

“Yes,” said Yehuda Leib. “I know.”

“I might have to reevaluate our agreement.”

Now Yehuda Leib came screeching to a halt in the middle of the snowy street, fixing Mammon with a cutting glare. “Don’t,” he said, “threaten me.”

“How can I possibly enter into partnership with someone who refuses to obey me?” said Mammon.