Zechariah’s face stayed neutral, though the words seemed to reverberate through a cavern in him. When was the first time he had joked about Menachem’s future? What were the first signs?

They certainly had not seen the signs in him soon enough. Or perhaps they had, and then closed their eyes.

There was a palpable pause when Darius waved for him to follow. As Darius had expected, Zechariah glanced toward the crowd. He let out a breath through his nose. ‘Want’ was a strong word.

Slowly, he meandered after him.

“It is a matter of distance,” he answered. “And mismatched availability.”

Chaim had been married by his age. He also rather preferred not facing that.

“Preferably less gruesomely,” Zechariah deadpanned. “I heard something about a guerrilla firing squad?”