“No, really, Dovid,” Zalman continued, dropping into the seat beside me. “I care about you. Something’s bothering you. I can feel it”

Dovid

Z

alman was looking at me from the door curiously, concerned. Like he really cared and wanted to know what was bothering me. No one had ever looked at me like that before - not since Papa died. Mama was always too busy, and who else was there?

I almost let his concern melt me. I almost let his care penetrate my heart. But then I felt my hand curving around that smooth, hard rock. I could still feel the exhilaration of throwing it. The satisfaction of finally, finally doing something.

“I’m not angry,” I muttered, pushing past him and into the hallway.

That night, Zalman tried again.

“Dovid?” Zalman cornered me in the kitchen while I was eating my supper — crusty bread slathered with soft white cheese. It had been so appetizing when I took that first bite, but now I just wanted to forget about it and run out the door. Why did Zalman have to bother me?

“Dovid?” Zalman said again.

I dropped the bread I was holding onto my plate and looked up. “What?”

“Wanna learn with me?”