It could have been hours since his sister’s murder, or days, or maybe just minutes. It was as if he had been wrapped in an all-enveloping numbness. He felt neither cold nor hunger nor loss nor outrage nor despair. He could not cry, but he was suddenly aware of a little cry coming from someone else, a whimpering that seemed to scratch at the numbness of the chamber that sealed him off from all feeling. He blinked. The light that fell through the slot was not lamplight, but natural light from a window. An entire night must have passed. It was a new day. The whimpering sound pulled him inexorably toward it. Like a fish pulled from the sea, Reuven felt himself being reeled out of his hole. He was beyond fear; he was beyond hope. For the first time in a week he stood up to his full height in the light of day. Something lay on the floor twisted and caked with blood. This is not Shriprinka. The words thundered in his head. No, not his sister! He refused to believe that. He could not touch her.
