Nechami suppresses a smile. Shifra possesses enough innocence for ten people, with a bit left over
One flame glows in the menorah. Shua sits nearby, learning. This, to Nechami, is perfection — a dance of melody and light.
She moves around the room, collecting the discarded wrappers of electric dreidels, dabbing at a spot of jam.
“What time are we going to the hall?” Shua asks, keeping his finger in place on the page.
“Seven thirty,” she says. “Ima asked the family to come early, for the pictures.”
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