Yoseph opened his eyes. He looked up but did not recognize the man’s face. “How do you know me?”

“I am Zebediah. I used to visit your village. Do you not remember me?”

Yoseph stared, but his eyesight was dim. “No, my friend, I do not. But clearly this is my misfortune.” But Yoseph lied. He did remember Zebediah. He was a renowned silk trader who occasionally traveled through their village. Despite his great success, however, tragedy had marred the man’s life. One day, while he and his son were out of the house, a band of men had broken into his home and taken the lives of his wife and young daughter.

Rumors later surfaced that the women were pagans and were planning to run away and join one of the clans waging war against God. Given this gossip, some came to hail the men who killed them not as murderers, but as heroes.

But Yoseph did not care to think of Zebediah’s troubles. The silk trader, at least, had a son.

Zebediah considered Yoseph’s threadbare tunic and gnarled hands. “Have you had additions to your family?” he asked.

“No,” Yoseph said, looking down. “But thank you for including me in your prayers.”

Zebediah cocked his head. “And your wife is well?”

Yoseph felt the heat of embarrassment rising up his face.

Was Zebediah mocking him?

When Yoseph did not answer, the silk trader said, “I have only three shekels with me. They are yours.”

“A most generous gift!” Yoseph said, groveling in the dust. “Many blessings on your house.” Inside, he wanted to scream.

When Zebediah left, Yoseph stuffed the coins into his tunic and headed for home. He could not bear the humiliation any longer.

As he walked alone on the road, he thought of disappearing. He then imagined hanging himself from the nearest tree. That particular thought terrified him and, with great effort, he kept his feet moving toward home. Leaving his family would bring unbearable shame. And retribution from God. He was a man, he told himself over and over. There was no escape from the grave responsibilities of his life.

But how much more could the Lord make him suffer?

He shuddered at the thought.

Anna poured hot water into a goatskin and tied off the top. Behind the goatskin partition, her mother writhed on her mat, her fists tight and yellowed from clenching against the pain. Anna pried her mother’s hands from her stomach and replaced them with the warm goatskin. Mari curled around the warmth, gritting her teeth.

While she rested, Anna stepped outside and sifted through her father’s rusted tools. Perhaps one day he would allow her to use them. Then she could repair the fallen manger and the workshop. And her mother could rest.

“Anna?” Mari called from inside.

Anna returned and lay next to her. “Yes, Mother, I am here.”