In the back of her head, Bluma remembered the song sung in synagogue every Sabbath as the Torah scrolls were laid in their ark:

It is a Tree of Life for those who cling to it….

“The synagogue! Come on!”

—

“Faster, boy,” cried Mammon. “Faster!” And, obligingly, Yehuda Leib put on a little burst of extra speed. Only two of the fingernails on his right hand were still attached to the wheelchair; his left hand was completely free.

But time was running short.

Just as they rolled into the intersection, a shock of bright lightning cracked through the sky, and there he was, not half a block distant:

The Rebbe.

There was the Rebbe.

“Stop!” said Mammon in a hoarse whisper. “Stop, stop, stop, stop, stop!”

Now Yehuda Leib fought to still the wheelchair, wrenching its wheels perpendicular to the slope of the hill, slipping, sliding, digging his heels in between the cobbles. He had to squeeze onto his jagged nail ends with his left hand to keep from losing control of the chair, and with a thrill, he felt the brittle nail of his right little finger snap in its mitten.

Only one left now.

“Listen to me carefully,” said Mammon. “We must approach slowly, decorously, as if we were only out to take the night air and happened upon him by chance.”

Yehuda Leib could not imagine anyone venturing out to take the air in weather such as this, but it hardly mattered. His father’s light was there in his coat pocket, warm against his thigh.

He had to sever his last nail, and he had to do it now.

“You will not speak,” said Mammon, “under any circumstances. Even if he addresses you directly. Even if I address you directly. Is that clear?”

“Yes, my lord,” said Yehuda Leib, nodding, but he had barely even heard what the demon had said.

This was the moment.

“Splendid,” said Mammon. “Walk on.”

He was out of time.

There was no other choice.

“Yes,” said Yehuda Leib. “Let’s go.” And, turning the wheels of the chair to face back down the hill slope, he swung his freed left hand madly, bashing it against his right, once, twice, three times.

“What are you doing?” said Mammon, tension stealing into his reedy little voice. “What, what, what is this?”

With the third swing, Yehuda Leib felt his final fingernail crack and break. The weight of the chair was lifted from him.

He was free.

With a great shove, Yehuda Leib launched Mammon away, confusion, panic, fury rising in the demon’s voice as, shaken by the cobbles, he rolled off into the falling snow.

No time to lose.

Yehuda Leib tore the mittens from his hands and drove his fingers into his pocket.

The beautiful warmth of his father filled his bones.

He hadn’t imagined it.

He was still here.