No one is coming back tonight. They’ve left, okay?
Maybe I’ll work them out someday.
Until then… well, Abba wrote them. It’s his handwriting. And that’s like… well, I just want them, anyway.
And then I’m done, shelves disappointingly free of hidden treasures. I sit back down at the desk. I’ve never seen it so empty. Even when Abba did one of his cleanup sprees, trying to get everything “mesudar — organized,” as he’d called it, it hadn’t looked like this. Nothing on the desk, nothing in the three drawers…
Wait. Three?
A memory bubbles up to the surface, a scene in this same room, maybe five, six years ago… little Yair jiggling on Abba’s lap, thrilled to be allowed into the inner sanctum to “help Abba clean up,” and Abba making it a game, handing over different items to put away…
“This sefer goes on the…”
“Middle shelf! I see it, I see it! All the other red ones, and there’s a space for this one!” I shriek, and tumble off Abba’s lap to put the sefer away.
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