Yehuda Leib gestured to the forest at large as if to say, What else is there?

There was a long, heavy silence.

“Well,” said Issur. “I hope you survive.”

“Yes,” said Yehuda Leib. “So do I.”

“Best of luck,” said Issur, and, turning to the path, he gathered his reins.

“You know,” said Yehuda Leib, “if you really want me to survive, you could give me a lift. Just as far as Zubinsk.”

Issur rolled his eyes. “Oh, sure. So you can steal my cart when I’m not looking?”

This was incredibly stupid. There would only be cause for Yehuda Leib to steal the cart if Issur didn’t give him a lift.

“I promise I won’t do that.”

But now Issur was beginning to enjoy his power, and a little smirk curled at his lip. “What, I’m supposed to trust you? You attacked me, just yesterday, like a vicious animal.”

“Yes,” said Yehuda Leib, clenching his jaw rhythmically. “I did. And I’m sorry.”

“Oh-ho-ho!” laughed Issur Frumkin. “Now you’re sorry! Would you have been sorry if I were on foot?”

Of course he wouldn’t. “Of course I would.”

“Well,” said Issur, “I don’t believe you.”

Yehuda Leib was becoming desperate. “Issur, please,” he said, and then, impulsively, “I can pay?”

Issur lifted his lantern high and peered down as Yehuda Leib rifled through his pockets.

“Ha,” said Issur, entirely without humor. “Keep your money. You’ll need it if you ever make it to Zubinsk.”

Yehuda Leib was growing frightened. The donkey cart was his best chance, and if he didn’t manage to get on it, who knew what might happen?

“Issur,” he said. “Issur, I’m sorry. Please.”

Issur scoffed. “You’re not sorry. You hate me.”

He couldn’t quite believe it, but once again, Yehuda Leib had been caught off guard by just how awful Issur Frumkin really was.

“I’ll say it again, Yehuda Leib: I wish you the best of luck.”

And then, softly at first, then louder and louder, a drumbeat of snowy hooves.

Someone was coming down the path.

Someone on horseback.

Someone big.

—

The drumming of the hooves slowed first to a trot and then to a walk.

Yehuda Leib crouched low in the snowy brush, his own breath deafeningly loud in his ears.

The horseman was huge, his long, dark coat spilling down on either side of the saddle. His thick beard was black with patches of gray, and his cloudy eyes hid something sharp and angry, like needles secreted into soft, gauzy cotton.

“What’s your name, boy?” he said to Issur, busying himself with his saddlebags. His voice was rough, ragged, like it had been torn apart and stitched together a thousand times.

“Missursur,” murmured Issur.

In a swift, violent scuffle, the horseman seized Issur by the front of his shirt and dragged him in close. “You speak clearly when you talk to me.”

“Issur! My name is Issur!”