Almost without thinking—almost—Bluma stuck the spoon into the pocket of her apron and wheeled about to face her mother.

“Perla Kraindl’s here. She wants to say hello. Will you come down?”

Feygush’s face was drawn and weary.

Bluma looked at her with pity.

—

The old woman was dead and buried.

Shulamis had not known her well, but all the same she lingered at the back of the crowd by the graveside until Zalman packed the very last shovelful of earth atop her casket.

It gave her a chance to cry.

The sun was low and the sky beginning to darken as Shulamis started the short trudge back to her little house. It would be dark, and it would be cold, and it would be empty.

But as soon as Shulamis reached the front of her house, she knew. A little sob broke from her throat, and she found that she was smiling.

Yehuda Leib’s familiar footprints led first into, and then back out from, her front door.

And the warm red scarf was nowhere to be seen.

—

Yehuda Leib straightened his scarf and hoisted his pack high.

Now was as good a time as any.

The shadows between the trees glowered down at him like the darkness between teeth; a breeze stirred the pine needles as if to whisper, You are too frightened.

And perhaps he was.

Tupik was far behind him now, over the hill and downriver nearly half an hour’s walk, but he could still smell the toasted aroma of its fires.

He still might find his way back.

As much to buy time as to warm them, Yehuda Leib stuck his chill, stiff fingers into his coat pockets. He had mittens, of course, but he didn’t like to wear them. He couldn’t stand being constrained.

But at the bottom of his coat pocket, Yehuda’s fingers met something cold and hard.

Two somethings, in fact.

The coins were thick and heavy in his hand, and when he opened his fingers to look down at them, he felt a little jolt of shock. They had come out of his pocket well spaced, and for a moment he could’ve sworn that they were living eyes, looking straight back up at him.

Or one living eye, at least. The coin on the right was flipped to display its closed lid, as if frozen in a perpetual wink.

Somehow, this bothered Yehuda Leib.

“No,” he said to himself, flipping the coin on the right. “Eyes open.”

A low, stalking breeze rifled the tree branches.

The sun was sinking with every passing minute. If he didn’t go now, he would lose what little light he had left.

Pocketing the coins, Yehuda Leib took a deep breath and began to climb.

—

The forest between Tupik and Zubinsk was mostly evergreen, and the snow clumped together atop the boughs and needles, forming a barrier against the low sun.