“Yehuda Leib,” said the Dark Messenger. “I must ask you to move aside.”

“What?” said Yehuda Leib. Something deep inside him felt suddenly broken, and he almost feared to move lest the pieces be irretrievably scattered.

“It is time.”

The Dark Messenger stepped forward, and, instinctively, Yehuda Leib scuttled back. The Messenger reached deep into his black coat and brought forth—

Brought forth nothing.

“Ah,” he said, patting at his pockets. “Forgive me. Forgive me, I—I seem to have mislaid…”

Yehuda Leib gazed silently up at him past red, tear-streaked cheeks.

“I’m afraid I cannot…without my…” The Messenger sighed hard. “No. No matter,” he said, pushing up his sleeves. “We shall simply have to improvise.”

Carefully, Yehuda Leib inched forward, craning to see what would happen.

Taking firm hold of his right pinky between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, the Dark Messenger grimaced and pulled.

The nail grew longer.

Twice more the Messenger grasped and pulled, grasped and pulled, until he had made, protruding about an inch from his little finger, a sharp, rounded trough of his smallest nail.

“Stand back,” he said, and moved forward to plant a foot on either side of the dead man’s chest. Bending low, the Messenger dipped his nail deep into the eyes of Yehuda Leib’s father—first the right and then the left—and, delicately, he scooped out a small point of light from each and tipped it into the palm of his left hand.

And, just like that, the body in the snow was vacant—nothing more than cooling meat.

His father, however, was still there: a pair of faint, glimmering lights in the left hand of Death.

If only he could reach them…

Slowly, Yehuda Leib began to creep forward.

“Stay back,” said the Messenger with a voice of ice.

Carefully, the Messenger rolled the two points of light into one between his palms, and he began to look about on all sides as if searching for a convenient place to put it down.

“But how?” he muttered to himself. “How to safely contain…”

“What is that?” said Yehuda Leib.

The Messenger seemed annoyed. “Oh, nothing. If I had my…” And here he sighed. “This is truly…” And, looking deep into the trees, he called out sharply: “You there!”

There was a skittering in the darkness, and a honking caw.

“Yes, you. Come forth.” It was a long moment before he repeated, “Come forth, I say!”

Finally, what seemed to be an ordinary if startlingly large crow came flitting out of the darkness.

But there was something odd behind its eyes—something dark.

Something intelligent.

The crow bowed its head toward the snowy path and spoke in a crackling voice. “Most Reverend Regent.”

Yehuda Leib recoiled at the sound. Were crows meant to speak? He thought not. But then nothing seemed more impossible than what had just happened: his father given and taken away in a single moment.