Of course the captain would be a danger. Well, it looked as though he had plans after dinner: pikuach nefesh demanded it.

Should he feel guilty about worrying whether or not the half-drowned man was staining his robe? Probably. Maybe later.

Then, his dramatic brother, plate still full, was leaving for a smoke in a way that almost made him look his age. Almost.

Next thing he knew it, Uriel was leaving, Crane was choking, and the soaked guy ruining Mr. Schwartz’s nice oak floor was the most normal-looking fellow in the whole room. Zechariah stood and pushed his chair in.

“On the contrary,” Zechariah said, full attention on Crane now, “I would rather not confront a potential serial killer on my own?”

He glanced toward the hall, made a face, then looked back to Crane. “A moment, if you will.”

Though he did not break out into a full sprint, he certainly walked faster than usual to catch up with Uriel. What did he say? That it was foolish? That his options at this age and point in his career would only bring shame? That Zechariah was already enough shanda for the both of them?

He looked to Uriel, pursed his lips, then ran a hand through his hair in uncertainty. Two candles burned in the window by them, and the curtain was drawn. Then, silently, he settled at arms’ length with his back against the house, clasping his hands and watching his brother from the corners of his eyes.