When the stranger next to me pulled out a flip phone, I looked for the closest exit. I had thought it was a gun. My mother wore her temple heels, so I guess I would have carried her in a fireman's lift through that nearest door and down the stairs. I prayed to adrenaline.

The stranger and I both stood when they opened the ark. He was shorter than I, his balding covered up by the provided kippah. Might his features suggest signs of weakness or rage? I could never really tell—not with myself, either. Some days, I was tired; some days, I was livid. Some days, they felt the same.

His voice sounded nice with mine, though. We were basses, and during "Oseh Shalom" we each rose to hit the higher Hebrew before settling into the lower melody. It had an effect of cascade and concert. He did not take out his flip phone. He did not take out his gun. My mother put a hand on my lapel as if to remind me of something we'd long forgotten, but instead she joined in her wavering soprano.

If a bomb went off, would we be skyrocketed together or apart? Note how I won't say heaven-sent. I scrolled stories about aftermath on the internet, of being the last remaining. Lately I'd been checking aisles when I went to movies. I sought ways out. A friend got me a hat with a Jewish star for my birthday, and I didn't have the heart to tell her about yellow badges.

When the service ends, my mother and I kiss on the cheek. We wish each other a happy New Year in a language no one really taught us. It just kind of seeped in, encircled the periphery, covered the gaps. Then, I turn to find the stranger's hand extended to shake mine and pull the trigger.

.