“Happy to help,” the young man said. “By the way… are you by any chance related to Dudi Silver?”

Early in the afternoon, a man stepped over the threshold of a little store in Geula. His eyes met rows and rows of screens. Across from them were more screens. Along the third wall were printers, mouses, ink cartridges, and little boxes holding wires and cables. The man’s cell phone rang, giving him a few moments’ respite before the inevitable plunge.

“Abba?” It was Tovi. “Ima asked me to remind you about our appointment tomorrow at the consulate.”

“For the visa to America?”

“Yes.” She didn’t sound enthusiastic.

“Cheer up, Tovi. We’ll have a nice trip to Yerushalayim.” He smiled into the phone while his face clouded over. Three visas at $160 each. That was well over a thousand shekels, which nobody was counting as part of the expenses for the surgery. In addition to the cost of passports. And plane tickets. Not to mention the loss of income during their stay there.

“What do we need a visa for?” Tovi wondered. “Can’t we skip that part and save the money?”

“We already paid the fees, Tovi. And we need the visa for the trip to California.”

She said nothing, but he heard her loud and clear: But Abba, you don’t have the money to pay for the surgery! Instead she suggested softly, “Maybe I can just get the surgery here in Israel?”

Gedalya’s eyes ran over the closed boxes on the shelves. Their contents were strangers to him.

“Of course we’re not doing it here in Israel, Tovi,” he said bracingly. “B’ezras Hashem we’ll take you to Dr. Barclay — she’s the best surgeon for you. Pack up a bag for our trip to the consulate tomorrow, and a big smile along with it. Maybe we’ll go to the Kosel afterwards and daven.”

At home in Beit Shemesh, he knew, Shifra was preparing all the paperwork for the application process. She had stacked three passports, the applications for their visas, and Tovi’s medical documents inside a neat folder. Their neighbor across the hall, who ran a travel agency from her home, had printed out all the forms for them and helped fill them out in proper English.

As Gedalya closed his flip phone, the young, pleasant salesman turned to him immediately. “How can I help you, sir?”

“I want to… I mean I have to… buy a computer.”

“What do you have in mind? A laptop? A desktop? A tablet?”

“I… don’t know yet.”

“We have a nice selection of all three,” the salesman said. “These are the mobiles — the laptop, notebook, and tablet computers — and over here are the desktop models. This compact type, with the processor built in behind the screen, is a big seller today. Let’s see if I can help you narrow down your choices.”

The salesman reminded him of his brother Dudi. That kippah. The blue shirt. The way he talked. The whole style, the way he seemed to view things. He said a lot more, all gibberish to Gedalya, and asked him questions he had no answers to.

“I’ll tell you what,” Gedalya finally said. “I’ll come back when I have more information. Thank you for your time.”

“Happy to help,” the young man said. “By the way… are you by any chance related to Dudi Silver?”

“How do you know Dudi?”