Tamar, halfway through dinner, looked up as if struck by an idea. Then she reached into her pocket, pulled out a crisp hundred-dollar bill, and held it up between two fingers.

  Tamar (eyeing Shoshana): I’ve got a challenge for you. I’m giving it to you and not Tzuriel, because based on the stories I’ve been hearing, he’d win without even trying. But you?

  On Yom Kippur, you cannot touch him. No holding hands. No leaning. No sneaking a finger around his wrist. Nothing.

  If you manage it, this is yours.

  Shoshana stared at her, then turned pleadingly toward her mother.

  Shoshana: Mom, you’re not seriously going to let her do this to me, are you?

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  Myriam calmly wiped her hands on her napkin, utterly unbothered.

  Myriam: Sweetheart, the choice is yours. But… this is not going to be the most embarrassing conversation we have in the next few months.

  Look, we’re going to treat you like a mature Jewish woman. We’re not Orthodox, but if you’re in a serious relationship, you’ll follow the Orthodox practices during that time of the month—at least regarding physical contact.

  Shoshana’s mouth fell open.

  Shoshana: Mom, you can’t do that to me! We just met. I’m not even sure he’ll understand.

  David set down his fork with the gentle finality of a man who’d already accepted his role in this unfolding drama.

  David: I’ll explain it to him.

  Think of Yom Kippur as a trial run. There’s even a carrot if you succeed.

  If you fail… then you and your brother can have a nice, long conversation about the rules of niddah.

  Shoshana let out a long, defeated sigh and slumped in her chair.

  Shoshana: …I guess I’ll try.