David heard a gate slam, and he groaned when he saw Nethanel storming toward them, trying to avoid the piles of fresh dung. David steeled himself. As usual, Nethanel’s hair hung in a fastidious braid the length of his back. It reminded David of a limp adder. The wooden hoe hung behind his back from a leather strap. He carried it like a weapon of war, which in a sense it was, since he kept it almost as sharp as a sword. “Father wants you to take food to the … and Shimeah’s boys …” he muttered, his words growing more unintelligible the longer he spoke. David almost laughed. The fourth sibling in the pecking order dragged a load of resentment everywhere he went, and the angrier he became, the more incomprehensible his speech. Nethanel stood poised, waiting for David to request clarification. Unwilling to take the bait, David turned away and bent down to examine a goat’s hind leg. Jahra followed his lead, running his hand over the perfectly fine limb.
