“But a neshamah is different than a star. It never dies out. It goes right near Hashem — and there it’s a sun.”

Late at night, while Ruthie cries herself to sleep, Chanoch solves calculus problems in his head.

He’s had a textbook on his night table ever since 12-year-old Shimon was diagnosed, nine long months ago. At first, relatively simple problems kept his head occupied for long enough that fatigue would set in and he’d drift into an uneasy slumber. But as the months went by and first one and then another round of chemotherapy failed, he scoured used bookstores for more complex textbooks, for problems that would consume his mind, leaving no room for any other thoughts to enter.

Tonight, just as he’s at the edge of the solution, nearly grasping the correct sequence of numbers, Ruthie speaks.

“Dr. Harding said the radiation hasn’t helped at all. There’s a new experimental drug. It’s drastically helped some patients. There are side effects, but nothing too horrific.”

Chanoch watches the string of numbers float away. He forces himself to focus on the words Ruthie is saying.

“Experimental?” he says. “That sounds risky.”

“Dying is even riskier.”

“He’s not dying,” Chanoch responds automatically. “Our son is ill, but Hashem can cure him easily. We just have to do our hishtadlus.”

“Precisely. And that’s why I think we should try this drug.”

“I’ll look into it,” he tells her. “When I’m in the hospital tomorrow I’ll find out whatever I can from the doctors, then I’ll do my own research, and then I’ll speak to Rabbi Sternfeld.”

“You make it sound so simple,” Ruthie says.

“Well, it is, isn’t it? It’s pretty clear what we have to do.”

“This is Shimon we’re talking about, Chanoch.” Her voice cracks.

“I realize that.”

The silence between them stretches, a long, hard stillness. Finally he hears the bedroom door creak open. She’s gone.

He knows where he’ll find her if he looks. She’ll be curled up on the sofa downstairs, looking at photo albums. Tiny Shimon in the magnificent white outfit Ruthie’s grandmother had given them, he and Ruthie glowing at the bris of the baby they’d awaited for seven years. Shimon trying to feed himself mashed bananas — he’d been independent even then — the spoon flipped, yellow mush dripping from his brown curls. Shimon’s upsherin, his curls shorn, his fingers sticky with honey. Shimon at age five, standing tall beside the bassinet holding Tali, the only sibling they’d ever been able to give him.

Then there’d be pictures of Shimon and Tali, the two of them stretched out on the floor, Shimon peering at the miniature human being across from him in wonder. The two of them sharing homemade carrot muffins — Tali’s favorite — on the Little Tikes picnic bench in the yard, Shimon leaning over to help Tali pull the paper off her muffin; she looking up at him with gratitude.

Pictures of Shimon playing baseball, rowing a boat, running the pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey game at the neighborhood carnival. Pictures of Shimon’s siyumim and awards, his dioramas and school plays.

Ruthie’s head would be bent low over the pictures, and the tears would fall freely on the smooth plastic protecting their attempts at freezing time.

Chanoch would shuffle his feet and clear his throat. Ruthie would look up with a look of cautious expectation in her eyes. But then he’d be struck silent, unable to say a word, and Ruthie’s eyes would shutter closed. She would return to the album. He knows all this, for the scene has played itself out so many times. So he stays in bed, and starts redoing the calculus problem.

Chanoch davens haneitz the next morning and drives straight to the hospital to catch Dr. Harding before he begins his rounds. He gets there so early that the doctor hasn’t even arrived. He steps into Shimon’s room. The boy is awake, shifting fitfully in bed.

“Good morning,” Chanoch says. “How are you feeling?”

“Yucky,” Shimon answers. “Everything hurts. But the nurse said I can’t get another dose of morphine until 7.”

“Did you get any sleep?”

“A little. Keep waking up from all the aches.”

“Do you want a drink? Something to eat? Should I call the nurse?”

“Not thirsty. Can’t eat. The nurse won’t do anything.”

Chanoch had always appreciated Shimon’s candor. Now it leaves him helpless. He walks to the bottom of the bed, scans the charts, reviews the results of the previous day’s blood work, notes the fluctuating blood pressure with a frown.

“Shimon, I have to speak to Dr. Harding. I’ll come check on you later, okay?”

Shimon nods slowly, and Chanoch walks back to Dr. Harding’s office. He’s gratified to find the doctor reviewing files.

“Ah, Mr. Felder, come on in. How is your Shimon doing?” say Dr. Harding.

“That’s what I was going to ask you,” replies Chanoch.

Dr. Harding’s perpetual smile wavers. “He’s been better,” he finally says. “Did your wife speak to you about the new drug we’re considering?”

“She did. That’s why I’m here. I’d like to know more.”

“The drug was just approved by the FDA in March, and it hasn’t been used on many children, so results are inconclusive, but the clinical trials were promising.”

“Who developed the drug? Is it a targeted therapy, or will it kill any cells it encounters? Which enzymes will it inhibit?” Chanoch is leaning forward, his face inches from the doctor’s, the questions pouring out in a rush. “What are the efficacy rates? Numbers — I need numbers. What are the potential side effects, and what’s the likelihood of those side effects occurring? And are those side effects treatable?”

Dr. Harding studies Chanoch for a moment, then turns to his computer and starts typing. “There was a study recently published in the Journal of Pediatric Hematology-Oncology. It contains the answers to a lot of your questions.” A few clicks of the mouse, and the printer spews out pages of closely printed text.

Chanoch lunges forward, reaching for the sheaf of paper, when Dr. Harding holds up a hand. “There’s just one thing I want to mention first,” he says quietly. “Your wife asked me only one question about this drug.”

Chanoch forces himself to look up at Dr. Harding. “Yes?”

“Your wife asked: Would I give it to my own son? And the answer to that question is yes.”

Chanoch gives a curt nod. “Good to hear. Now, if you can just give me those studies…”

It’s late when Chanoch finally arrives at his front door. He pauses before reaching for his keys. The house is shrouded in darkness. Ruthie must still be at the hospital. For the hundredth time, Chanoch is grateful to his brother-in-law for insisting that Tali go to sleepaway camp this year.

They’d been loath to send such a little girl away for two months, but Eli had been right — they never could have provided her with the summer she deserved.

A full moon bathes the street in light. Chanoch looks up, past the sprawling oak tree in the front yard. He can make out the Big Dipper and Polaris and Orion. It’s August, and if only he had his telescopes out, he could even catch a glimpse of Neptune. He throws his briefcase down, sinks onto the lawn, and gingerly leans back on his elbows.