“This Shabbos we’re not having any bochurim. I keep thinking about what you said and everything that happened… I want to get my balance back”

Benny woke up on Wednesday morning with a firm resolve: He was going back to the Mir. It had been days since he’d been there, and weeks since he’d really felt at home on the benches of Beis Yeshaya. Since Kroizer had given his ultimatum — 10,000 shekels or leave — he’d felt like an interloper pretending to be something he wasn’t.

But last night it had felt good to learn with Borenstein, to realize that Benny Muller, the solid learner, the guy who kept sedarim and schedules and commitments, may have gotten sidetracked but hadn’t disappeared. Now he wanted to be back in that big building with the hum of people discovering truth over and over again every day.

You don’t have to cover up who you are, he had told Meir yesterday. Even if you’re not that perfect black-and-white yeshivish guy, even if your parents don’t have gedolim pictures on their walls, this belongs to everyone.

Tziporah was packing up the kids’ lunches when he got home from Shacharis. He roused Meir, who pulled himself together quickly. “I’m taking my kids to gan,” he told him, “and then I’m going to the Mir. How about you head there straight from Shacharis?”

Meir nodded.

“I’ll be in Beis Yeshaya, fourth floor, front left of the beis medrash. If you don’t find me, ask around.”

Benny left his bike at home; he wanted to walk this time, think through the sugya methodically.

Borenstein nodded in welcome when he stepped into the beis medrash. Benny sat down and settled in. This was his too. Even though he didn’t have a father-in-law paying his way. Even though he didn’t have the right résumé, the yeshivish family, the perfect pedigree.

Midway through first seder, Meir Elbogen appeared in the back of the beis medrash.

“Hey, Meir!” Benny waved him over. “Good to see you, man.”

Meir gave a half-nod.

“This is my chavrusa,” Benny said, indicating Borenstein. “My long-suffering chavrusa, I should say.”

Meir took in Shimmy Borenstein with a calculating look. Borenstein managed the scrutiny just fine; he looked right back curiously.

“How do you know Benny?” he asked.

“He works in my yeshivah,” Meir said.

Borenstein’s eyebrow arched for a half-second. “You’re a Ner Olam guy?”

Meir shrugged defensively. “And if I am?”