The next Thursday more than a dozen of us trooped over to Uncle Meshulam’s. His vineyards marched down the hillside on either side of a great terrace.

A bunch of us were hanging out in Miriam’s arbor, kind of waiting to see if Peter was going to show up after putting his nets away, kind of not caring if he didn’t, since things always got a lot louder when he arrived.

No clue. They have no clue. I tied a towel around my waist, filled a big bowl with hot water and carried it into the hallway where they were sitting around on benches, waiting for the women to announce that Passover was ready.

In a couple weeks Yossef and I were texting each other like pros.

I was milking the goats in the shed when the mail came. I could hear Mother’s voice—calm, polite, everyday.