Too many compliments in one sentence. Shraga nods his thanks and waits for the other shoe to drop
“Mordy Weiss,” the boy says shortly, when Shraga goes over to him after shiur to welcome him and ask his name. “I live here. Israel. My family made aliyah years ago.”
There’s something about the way he speaks, listless almost, that makes Shraga’s heart twist. Instinctively, he leans forward, grips the bochur’s hand.
“Shraga Fein. Let me know if you need anything.”
Mordy gives a little nod, surprise flitting across the blank look. His eyes are light, a murky blue-green-gray. Meir, Shraga remembers, had brown eyes.
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