Dini’s heart soared as she hung up the phone. Had Ayala actually invited her into the inner Chesed Tzirel sanctum?

The emergency room at Shaare Zedek was more hectic than usual. Ayala held Mrs. Aaronson’s clammy, wrinkled hand as they sat on the plastic chairs waiting, looking yet again at the screen whose “next patient in line” hadn’t seemed to budge in the last half hour. Each time a doctor or nurse strode by, people around them jumped up, trying desperately to get their attention.

Next to her, Mrs. Aaronson sat patiently, lips pressed tightly together as if to hold in the pain. Ayala had had a rare moment of clarity when the elderly lady called early this morning, her voice taut, but polite as ever. Ayala had assumed she was calling about her husband as usual, but no, Mrs. Aaronson had explained apologetically that she’d woken up with severe chest pains. Hatzalah was on their way, but she had no one to accompany her to the emergency room. Malee, their Thai aide, needed to stay with Mr. Aaronson, of course. She hated to bother Ayala, she’d gasped, she surely had so many important things to do this morning, but if it were at all possible—

“I’m coming right now,” Ayala had interrupted. The Aaronsons were only two blocks away; if she left this second, she should make it before the ambulance. “Don’t worry, I’ll be there with you the whole time.”

The twins, bless them, had agreed to help Naftali get the kids out to school and day care. As Ayala had flown through the streets, thinking about the sweet childless lady who spent her days caring for her husband and had to beg someone to accompany her to the hospital when she might be having a heart attack, the moment of clarity had suddenly struck.

This was why she’d given up her speech job and accepted Dini’s salary.

Not to meet with overpriced consultants or run fancy fundraisers. To have her mornings free to help women like Mrs. Aaronson.