“Please, my wife and kids are waiting for me. I have to get home. Just tell me where to go and what bus to wait for”

Something was rumbling, then sputtering. Then there was a loud squeak, and a slam.

Benny sat up and blinked. What time was it? How long had he been sleeping at this picnic table? The sky was a pale, tentative blue tinged by rose. It must be very early; the Mideastern sky he knew was blazingly bright.

He squinted at his watch. It was 6:20. The parking lot was empty save for one car that had seen better days. Its driver, a dark young man with thick wavy hair that was shaved close to his head just above the ears, was staring at Benny.

“Shalom,” Benny said with a weak wave. “Boker tov.”

The guy nodded, eyes narrowed. “Who are you?” he asked. “What are you doing here?”

Benny stood. His body was stiff and unresponsive; every muscle seemed to protest the night he’d spent folded over a picnic table.

“It’s a long story,” he said. “I ended up here with no way to get home — but maybe you can help me? I really need to get back to Yerushalayim...”

“Hmm,” the guy said. He was still suspicious. Probably thought Benny was drunk, or worse.

Benny pointed toward his bike and made sure to sound as lucid as possible. “You see, that’s my bike, but it ran out of electricity. And I don’t have the charger here. So maybe you can tell me which bus to take back to Yerushalayim? And where I can catch it?”

The guy just stood there.

Benny found himself pleading. “Please, my wife and kids are waiting for me. I have to get home. Just tell me where to go and what bus to wait for.”