“This isn’t about a medical issue. Or am I not allowed to talk to you about something that’s not related to Chesed Tzirel?”
The local bagel store was so packed that Ayala and Naftali had to squeeze into a table behind the door to drink their iced coffees.
“What’s everyone doing here on a busy Friday morning?” she grumbled.
“Same as what we’re doing here, no?” her husband replied.
Ayala wasn’t so sure about that. She knew why she was here: because yesterday, Naftali had asked her if she had time to discuss a question one of the avreichim in his kollel had asked him, and she — stirring the scrambled eggs for dinner with one hand and jotting down a note about a chesed client with the other (deliver wheelchair to Strassman, being released after Shabbos) — had replied, “What’s his medical issue?”
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