The Hasidim were consumed in their distress, cradling the holy Rebbe where he had fallen in the street, checking for breath, for warmth, for a beating heart, calling out to anyone, anyone for help.

And several feet away, all but forgotten, was the Dark One, lurking, grief-stricken, beneath the shadowy eaves of a house.

What had he done? He had not meant to harm the Rebbe—nothing could’ve been further from his heart.

“He’s breathing,” said one of the Hasidim. “He’s still breathing. Someone, anyone, help!”

The Dark One had been foolish. He should never have come to Zubinsk, never have taken up with these rejoicing Hasidim. His head was swimming—with drink, with shame, with sorrow, with rage.

Before him in the street, he could see the holy Rebbe, still and stony, cradled in the arms of one of his Hasidim.

Why had he turned away?

Why?

And then the Dark One lifted up his eyes, and at the far end of the snowy street, clear in the knife-sharp starlight, the Dark One saw the reason:

Yehuda Leib.

—

“You,” said the Dark One. It was only a whisper, but Yehuda Leib heard it loud and clear from across the crowding road—a charge, a prosecution:

You.

His heart lurched, and without looking back, Yehuda Leib turned and tried to make himself scarce.

But he had been seen, and he knew it.

“I see you there,” said the voice behind him. “You cannot run from me. I see you, Yehuda Leib!”

Yehuda Leib swung around a narrow corner, and his feet skidded and came to a stop. In front of him, a short alleyway ran no more than six feet deep before ending in a solid brick wall plastered over with faded handbills and torn advertisements. All around him, the buildings rose, two, three stories into the sky.

Yehuda Leib wheeled about.

The Dark Messenger was closing in. There was no escape.

“You,” said the Dark One.

“Stay back,” said Yehuda Leib.

“Why did you call out to the Rebbe?”

“What business is it of yours?”

“It was not his time,” said the Dark One. “What have you done?”

Yehuda Leib was flabbergasted. “What have I done? What have you done?”

The Dark One scoffed. “You know nothing, boy.”

“Oh no?” said Yehuda Leib. “I know this: if I’d called out to the Rebbe and you hadn’t been there, I’d be talking to him right now instead of you.”

“But if you hadn’t—”

“Then what?” said Yehuda Leib, taking a lunging step forward. “What wouldn’t have happened? Finish the sentence.”

“You are nothing, boy,” said the Dark Messenger. “You are a buzzing gnat. I shall be talking with kings when the dust that was your bones has all blown away.”

“That changes nothing,” said Yehuda Leib. “When my bones have blown away, you will still bear the guilt for what you’ve done.”