“But a neshamah is different than a star. It never dies out. It goes right near Hashem— and there it’s a sun.”
He’s had a textbook on his night table ever since 12-year-old Shimon was diagnosed, nine long months ago. At first, relatively simple problems kept his head occupied for long enough that fatigue would set in and he’d drift into an uneasy slumber. But as the months went by and first one and then another round of chemotherapy failed, he scoured used bookstores for more complex textbooks, for problems that would consume his mind, leaving no room for any other thoughts to enter.
Tonight, just as he’s at the edge of the solution, nearly grasping the correct sequence of numbers, Ruthie speaks.
“Dr. Harding said the radiation hasn’t helped at all. There’s a new experimental drug. It’s drastically helped some patients. There are side effects, but nothing too horrific.”
Chanoch watches the string of numbers float away. He forces himself to focus on the words Ruthie is saying.
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