And then, into the hush on the far side of midnight, a door swung open; Yehuda Leib saw light cutting through the snow and the dim.

Bluma. She had always been kind to him.

“You look cold.”

Yehuda Leib nodded. “I am.”

Bluma shook her head softly, as if this were a very stupid response. “Then why don’t you go home?”

“Believe me,” said Yehuda Leib, tramping across the snowy road to the door. “I’d love to.”

Bluma sighed.

“What are you doing up so late?” said Yehuda Leib.

“Waiting,” said Bluma.

Bluma’s bubbe had not come home. Her father had gone walking the streets to look for her two separate times, but no one had seen her, and eventually, with no other good option, he’d gone to sleep—or at least to toss and turn in bed.

So Bluma did the only thing she could think to do:

She sat and waited.

“For?”

Bluma didn’t seem to like this question, and she tossed her head and changed the subject. “I heard you started a fight with Issur Frumkin today.”

Yehuda Leib sighed. “I didn’t start it. I never start it.”

Bluma rolled her eyes. “Of course not.”

Now there was a short, empty silence.

“But did he at least deserve it?”

“Certainly.”

Bluma chuckled.

“You didn’t say what you were waiting for.”

“No,” said Bluma. “I didn’t. But you didn’t say where you were going.”

“Well, you didn’t ask.”

“Where are you going, Yehuda Leib?”

“I don’t know,” said Yehuda Leib. “Away.”

Bluma was standing just inside the door, the candle behind her throwing a warm flicker into the street; Yehuda Leib was standing just outside, the snowflakes on his coat melting away like dewy ghosts.

“Anyway, I can’t stay here anymore.”

Bluma’s eyebrows fell. “Does your mother know about this?”

Yehuda Leib nodded. “It was my mother who sent me away.”

Bluma’s chin began to twitch, and for an agonizing moment, Yehuda Leib thought she might start to cry.

But instead, an idea seemed to march into her mind, her lips locking into a light, tight frown.

“What?” said Yehuda Leib.

“One second,” said Bluma, and she ducked inside, returning quickly to thrust a large braided challah at him. “Here,” she said. “Take this.”

“What?” said Yehuda Leib.

“Take it,” said Bluma. “And eat it sooner rather than later. It’s already a few days old, and they go stale quickly.”

It broke Bluma’s heart to see Yehuda Leib’s beautiful blue eyes widen; it was as if no one but his mother had ever given him food before, which was an unutterably sad thought.

“Thank you,” said Yehuda Leib, and then, four or five more times, “Thank you,” as he stuffed the challah into his little knapsack.

When he finally looked up again, he caught Bluma peering out into the darkness, searching.

“Well,” said Yehuda Leib, “good night.”