Shulamis turned away and wiped at her eyes. “If I thought it would change anything, I’d let him tear me limb from limb. But it won’t.” Slowly, she began to walk about the room, taking things from shelves and cupboards: a threadbare knapsack, a spare cap, a bowl, a cup, an extra shirt, a few potatoes. “If you can make it to Zubinsk, you should be able to lose him. Just get yourself as far away as you can.”

Yehuda Leib swallowed. “Okay.”

Carefully, Shulamis hung the knapsack on her son’s shoulders and set to fastening his coat.

“Mama?” said Yehuda Leib.

Shulamis did not look up from her work. “Yes?”

“Who is he? Avimelekh?”

Shulamis sighed. “He’s a very bad man. He hurts people, even when he doesn’t mean to—and he means to more often than not.”

Her voice was trembling; Yehuda Leib swallowed hard.

“If you want to stay the good young man you are—if you want to stay my son, Yehuda Leib—you keep yourself away from him.”

He nodded. “I will.”

Shulamis’s right cheek bunched up as she struggled to keep the tension from her voice. “Don’t you make any trouble.”

Yehuda Leib shook his head. “I won’t.”

Shulamis pulled the front door open and stood back.

“Will you be all right?” said Yehuda Leib to his mother, and she sighed long and low before saying, “I will.”

They both knew she was lying.

Outside, for the first time that year, fat white flakes of snow were beginning to fall.

Yehuda Leib took a deep breath, stepped out through the open door, and pulled it shut behind him.

Shulamis stood at the window, watching him walk away until she could see him no longer.

Only then did her eyes fall on the chair beside the door.

Tonight—of all nights—she had let him forget his warm red scarf.

—

It was not until he reached the cemetery on the hillside that Yehuda Leib began to consider what it would mean to flee into the forest at night. He was not wholly confident of the truth of the stories people told: of evil things among those trees, of accidents and mishaps, of long, snatching fingers and sharp, shearing teeth. He was, however, rapidly becoming sure that if he was going to find out, he would prefer to do so in the light of day.

Through the veil of falling snow, the low-hanging trees and leaning headstones met to create the impression of a mouthful of jagged teeth.

No. He would be far safer on this side of the cemetery tonight. He would hide himself somewhere in town, and when the morning came, he would make his way to Zubinsk.

Slowly, the town lay down to sleep; slowly, the eyes of Tupik began to shut.

Presently, things became still, only Yehuda Leib and the snow creeping on through the darkness.