Yehuda Leib’s head was swimming, and no matter how hard he fought to still it, it wouldn’t come to rest. Everything was a wide, turbulent nighttime sea, and as soon as he thought he recognized something—a person, a place, even an idea—it slipped away, sloshing into oblivion in the darkness.

Where was he? Where was he going? And for God’s sake, who was this sour little beast sitting between his fingers?

The cold wind whipped angrily through the streets of Zubinsk, cutting through the open neck of Yehuda Leib’s coat. He wanted to pull his lapels shut, but he couldn’t move his hands.

His scarf. If only he hadn’t forgotten his scarf.

But he hadn’t: that he could remember. He’d gone back to get it.

Where was it?

What had happened?

“Well?” said Mammon. “Where is he?”

It took Yehuda Leib a moment to realize that the little fellow was speaking to him.

“Um?” said Yehuda Leib, bringing the wheelchair to a stop.

“The Rebbe,” spat Mammon. “Where is the Rebbe?”

Yehuda Leib’s brows wrinkled and creased. Back in Tupik, he knew where to find their rabbi. But a little community rabbi is nothing like a holy mystic Rebbe.

“Where are we?” he said.

With an exasperated sigh, Mammon turned back in his chair to glare at Yehuda Leib.

“Zubinsk, boy,” he said. “We are in Zubinsk. And you are to take me to this miracle-working Rebbe so that I may claim him before any of those pompous fiends in the cemetery manage a way through.” In a huff, he sat back hard. “Honestly,” he muttered.

Yehuda Leib was still for a moment. Murky forms were beginning to emerge in the gloom of his mind.

Zubinsk.

The miracle-working Rebbe.

Yehuda Leib needed a miracle himself. What miracle did he need?

“Well?” cried Mammon.

With a sigh of his own, Yehuda Leib chose a street at random and pushed the wheelchair down it.

“That’s more like it,” said Mammon.

What miracle did Yehuda Leib need?

He had to think.

Zubinsk.

The road to Zubinsk.

Something had happened on the road to Zubinsk.

But everything was so strange here. The cobbles beneath his feet were firm and unmoving, not a single stone swapping with its neighbor.

Why was nothing in this place like a dream?

Think:

The road to Zubinsk.

Why had he been on the road to Zubinsk?

There had been another boy, a stupid boy in a donkey cart. And a warning—what had it been?

This was getting him nowhere. He needed something still—a landmark in his mind to reckon by.

And, like a lighthouse shining out through the dark, there she was:

Bluma, standing in the doorway. Bluma the baker’s daughter. She had given him a loaf of challah—he still had it in his bag.

Because he’d had to go.

Because someone had chased him.

And someone had caught him.