Through the phone, his mother’s sigh sounds like a storm wind. “I still don’t understand why you needed to do this trip over Succos, Zevi,” she says

Just for this long stretch of empty road, car skimming the asphalt like it’s air, the trip is worth it.

Zev rolls down his window, lets wind and noise rush in, hit him in the face. He’s clocking just under 75; they’ll be there in an hour.

“Could you maybe close the window a little?” Meir asks from the passenger seat. He’s gripping a Chumash with both hands, pages rebelliously fluttering in the whirl of wind. “It’s hard to learn like this.”

Oh, right, I’m not the only one in the car. He’d agreed to take Meir and the others as a favor to Moish, but honestly, he wishes he hadn’t.

If not for Moish, you’d be helping Ma prepare the guest rooms for your sisters and their families, he reminds himself. You certainly wouldn’t be spending Erev Succos flying down Route 17, heading for the country.

He owes Moish one, that’s for sure.

“No problem,” he tells Meir, flicking a button. The window closes sleekly and the noise is reduced to a muted hum.

In the backseat, Asher and his cousin are kidding around, munching on hot salsa tortilla chips. They’ve already offered him Doritos, chips, and giant sprinkle cookies — Asher’s trademark. He’s politely refused them all. There’ll be plenty of time to eat once they’re there; he needs the drive to clear his mind, clear himself.

“Use the right two lanes to take Exit 6 towards US 6” —  his phone announces, then is cut off by an insistent buzz.

Ma.

He can ignore the call, but it’ll be at his own peril — she’ll probably get frantic and call another six times until he answers.

The phone stops buzzing, and immediately starts again. Zev sighs and takes the call.

His mother’s voice floods the car’s speakers, far too loud. Zev winces and lowers the volume. It’s still too loud. He’s conscious of three pairs of ears listening.

“Hi, Ma, I’m driving, call you later?”

“It’s short,” Ma says, talking fast like she knows this is her chance, there’s nowhere for him to escape. “I met Mrs. Landau, that shadchan, you know. And she said—”

“Ma,” Zev says. His mother’s still talking. “Ma? Ma, listen, I’m driving. You’re on speaker. Let me call you later, okay?”

“Later? Apparently she gave you a name weeks ago — Gelbstein? — and she sounds like a top, top girl, just what you’re looking for—”

“Ma.” Zev breathes in through his nose, tries not to focus on the sudden silence from the backseat. Apparently, shidduch drama trumps even salsa-flavored chips. “I’m driving. I’ll call you back.”

Through the phone, his mother’s sigh sounds like a storm wind. “I still don’t understand why you needed to do this trip over Succos, Zevi,” she says. She’s the only one who still calls him that; he shed the nickname years ago, around the same time he left yeshivah to open the business.

Zev sighs. He’s not going there again; they’ve had this circular conversation too many times in the past two weeks.

“I’ll call you soon, Ma,” he says firmly.

There’s an awkward moment of silence after the call ends, then Meir starts sing-songing from his Chumash and Asher leans forward, into the space between the seats in the front row, and says, “Pssst, Morris. If that’s about Gelbstein from Pineview, I dated her a month ago — can give you the rundown.”

Zev’s eyes flick up to the rearview mirror. Asher looks genuine. He’s Moish’s friend and a teddy bear, big and round and warm.

Nice offer, but Zev learned long ago that he needs to make his own assessments when it comes to dating. To everything, really. “Thanks, but that’s okay,” he says, mildly. “I appreciate the offer, though.”