He was facing the other way, several doors down, his arms folded, his eyes fixed firmly on the shadowy windows above a well-appointed general store on the other side of the street:

Yehuda Leib, wan and sharp-edged—just as he’d been the night before.

By the time Bluma reached him, Yehuda Leib had taken notice of her staring. For a long moment, they stood regarding one another, their ears flooded with a cacophony of psalms.

Finally, “Yehuda Leib?” said Bluma.

And “Bluma,” he replied. “So it is you. What happened to your face?”

—

“What happened to your face?”

Bluma and Yehuda Leib stood in a nearby backyard to which they had retreated for a bit of privacy.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” said Bluma.

“I think I might,” said Yehuda Leib.

Bluma sighed. Maybe he would—but everyone knows: believing is not the same thing as understanding.

“I traded it, I suppose,” she said.

“For what?” said Yehuda Leib.

“For not having to have a face anymore,” said Bluma. “A face that people recognize.”

She expected Yehuda Leib to scoff at this, but he didn’t—he frowned, as if considering the value of this price, and then nodded lightly.

“And what about you?” said Bluma. “What happened to you?”

There was a faraway look in Yehuda Leib’s eyes. “I don’t quite know,” he said.

“Your hair’s grown long,” said Bluma.

“Has it?” said Yehuda Leib, feeling at the nape of his neck. “I slept for a long time, I think.”

This seemed perfectly reasonable to Bluma, for though only a day and a night had passed since they’d stood together at the threshold of her parents’ house, she had learned well the ways in which the Far Country can warp and stretch time. One day could be a moment, one night an eternity.

“There was a demon,” said Yehuda Leib, but Bluma spoke up sharply. “I don’t care for that word,” she said. It was Lilith’s phrase, and it was out of her mouth before she’d even managed to consider whether or not it was true.

Yehuda Leib shrugged. “Maybe we’ve met different kinds of demons.”

“I expect we have,” said Bluma.

But Yehuda Leib was preoccupied. His eyes, beautiful and sharp, were glazed, fixed, as if he were staring at something very, very far away.

“Bluma,” said Yehuda Leib. “I met my father.”

“Your father?” said Bluma. “I always thought he was dead.”

Yehuda Leib shook his head insistently. “He isn’t. Well, he wasn’t.” And then, quietly: “He won’t be.”

“What was he like?” said Bluma.

“Scary,” said Yehuda Leib. “Terrifying. But also warm. Familiar. And strange. I don’t know. I didn’t get enough time.”

“I’m sorry,” said Bluma.

And suddenly, Yehuda Leib’s faraway gaze was sharp and near again. “Why?” he said.