Unable to locate the sickly sheep, Jesus let his eyes drift toward the west where the sun was folding her vermilion robes along the horizon. Having traveled slowly to track the unhealthy animal, he was far behind the main flock. He paused to slip open his tunic and relieve himself. He did so standing. It had taken him many months to perfect the technique but, out of desperation, he had mastered it. From behind, he looked like any other young boy urinating in the desert.

Without warning, he saw the lead sheep make an unexpected turn to the south, luring the flock astray. Jesus dropped his tunic and drew his sling. To an outsider, his weapon would have seemed unremarkable. Nothing more than a flap of leather held at either end by cords of rope. But with careful and constant practice, he had become an expert in its use and could hit a target no bigger than a fist from a hundred yards away.

Crack! A stone ricocheted off his shinbone. Jesus yelped in confusion.

Had he shot himself?

“Gotcha!” Peter cried, laughing from a distance.

Jesus scowled at his trickery. With animal speed, he loaded his sling and took up pursuit. Light and swift on his feet, it did not take him long to corner Peter against a bank of cypress trees. Finding themselves in a standoff, the two took cover and fired stones at each other with speed enough to sting, but not pierce, the skin.

“Ow!” cried Peter when a stone ricocheted off his elbow.

Jesus rolled on the ground in mock agony. “I am hit! I am done!” he cried.

The two fell into laughing at their antics.

Then Peter slipped free of the trees and sunk to his heels. His breathing came tight and fast.

“You have overdone it,” Jesus said, alarmed at his friend’s shallow inhalations. For the first time in a long while he thought of Zahra and wished he had learned the cure she had applied to Daniel when he had experienced difficulty breathing.

Peter held up a hand. “It will be better soon,” he said. Eventually his breath returned. He drew a generous mouthful of air and asked, “Why have you moved so slowly today? I have composed a dozen new songs in the time it has taken you,” he said, running his fingers along the flute at his waist.

“One of my sheep is sick,” Jesus said. He then asked, “How is the pregnant ewe in your flock?”

“She, too, is slow,” Peter said. “But her teats have not fallen, so there is time. Maybe I shall compose another dozen songs,” he added, wryly.

Jesus frowned. The ewe’s impending labor made him anxious. “Let me see her,” he said.

Peter shook his head. “It is getting dark. We have to hurry if we are to make camp. And Solomon will be angered if I am late preparing our meal.”