He approached the door. He gripped the door knob knuckles tensed white. He exhaled, trying to relieve the tension in his chest, and pushed through. It smelled like dried blood and salted hide. Behind the counter, Zaruchel worked at a butchering table set against the wall. His back to the door, shoulders hunched over the carcass. He was skinning a cow. The smell of fat wafted through as his father meticulously scraped it from flesh and skin. Izkhaael smiled. It smelled like home. The little bell above the door rang. Zaruchel turned his head slightly at the sound—just enough to hear better, not to look.

  "I'll be with you in a minute. I'll have nothing to sell if I don't skin this beast."

  Izkhaael tried to speak but his voice sank into his chest. He watched his father work. His father's knife scraped, slow and with intention, against the underside of the hide. Morsels of fat fell in clumps battering the bucket as he scraped the edge with the flat of the blade. He'd probably use the tallow for candles. Maybe soap. His father wasted nothing—or rather he couldn't afford to.

  The blade sang a final note as it skated along the underside of the hide. Zaruchel pulled it down by hand, slicing only where the fat clung stubborn, Izkhaael remembered the sound from his boyhood—the rasp of blade and hide louder than voices. When the peeling was done the hide flopped to the floor, heavy, and hardly any fat left on the hide. Zaruchel waded his hands in a wash basin, and scrubbed his wrists.

  He turned. His mouth parted and he squinted. "Izkhaael." Just that. Almost a whisper.

  "Yeah it's me."

  Zaruchel smiled. "You're still alive. I'm shocked, I could've done with a letter."

  "Sorry. Didn't have much to say."

  "Don't apologize, give me a hand with this beast here. It'll go faster with an extra set of hands."

  Izkhaael grabbed an apron and adjusted the carcass so its belly faced over the edge of the table.

  "You remember how to gut 'em'." Zaruchel held out the knife.

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  Izkhaael took it. "These hands don't forget."

  Izkhaael pressed into it, the resistance was familiar. Fat clutched the blade, and flesh pushed against it. After the initial incision, he wrenched it open with his hands. He dug out the offal.

  Zaruchel spoke as Izkhaael worked. "You know Noem works at your uncle Hertzl's firm now."

  Izkhaael's arm curled behind the rib cage. "A moneylender. Huh."

  "He was only 12 when you left. He's grown."

  "That's right. Been seven years."

  "He'll remember you."

  "He'll know me. It's not the same."

  "Blood is blood."

  "That it is."

  After the gutting a lull came over. Izkhaael removed the offal, set it aside for cleaning, and separated the sellable guts from the waste.

  Zaruchel grabbed Izkhaael wrist as he cut out the heart. "Save the heart. Tonight you eat it."

  "Why."

  "Tradition. Have you forgotten?"

  "Is there a tradition that involves a drink?"

  "More than I would like." Zaruchel grabbed a bucket of water, and washed out the cavity. Streams of bile and blood ran to the floor. "Good news is you can't drink while the sun is out, so till then help me quarter it."

  Izkhaael grabbed the boning knife and saw from the side table, and cut away. Zaruchel tapped his shoulder. He took the tools from Izkhaael.

  "Your hands aren't like they used to be. Shaky."

  "Hands don't forget."

  "True enough. Suppose I'll tan the hides tomorrow. Noem's better at the books than the blood."

  "I'll salt em', so they keep."

  "Yeah, after that put the quarters on the hooks so they can set."

  Izkhaael nodded. The work was bloody but blood in a butcher shop only stays on the apron—everything washes off clean. Once it was done, they hung up their aprons and watered the tools.

  Zaruchel sighed. "Let's show you off to Noem and your uncle. I reckon their near done."

  "Alright."

  They walked to the financial quarter, the firm at the far edge. The streets were quiet. On the walls was written: Beware the Nesharim. Bandits steal by force. Thieves by swift hand. Nesharim with ink and wax.

  Izkhaael reached for the hilt of his sword. Then he let go—and walked on.