Ben sat in the small, sandy space behind his family’s home, stroking the lamb tied there on a leather leash. He was waiting for Joel, but he was in no hurry. He liked the lamb. It pushed its head against his hand, enjoying the attention, bleating softly now and then. Ben wanted to name the lamb, to make it into a pet, but there was no point. The lamb would be dead before long, killed by Ben’s grandfather.

“I’m sorry, little one,” Ben said, nuzzling the lamb’s soft wool. “You don’t know what’s coming.” Then he chuckled. “None of us know what’s coming, do we? We’ve surely learned that in these past months.”

Pharaoh had once again refused to let the Israelites leave Egypt. The storm of darkness had terrified Ben, but it had not convinced Pharaoh.

“I’m sorry. I know that Moses is supposed to be one of us,” Ben’s grandfather said inside the house, and Ben could hear his feet in the sand as he paced back and forth across the room. “But he’s never even lived among us! Raised in Pharaoh’s palace! Then for forty years he lived in the desert —and even took a wife from the desert tribes. What does he know of God’s chosen people?”

Ben heard a noise and looked up. Joel and Micah were coming, carrying their own spotless white lamb. There will be a lot of sad children on the day these lambs are killed, thought Ben. But then he remembered why the lambs were to be killed. There would be much sadness for other reasons too.

Ben thought about that sadness all week. And he was still thinking about it when, on an errand for his mistress one afternoon, he passed a strong-looking, richly dressed Egyptian man on the street. He was laughing and playing with his son, who was only a couple of years old. He would swing the boy up onto his shoulder and then tumble him down as the boy shrieked with laughter. The boy’s long hair, bound in back with a cord of red and gold, swung as his father swept him through the air.

It wasn’t until Ben had rounded the corner that he realized where he had seen that young nobleman before. His eyes shot open wide. He turned immediately and flew back down the street, looking for the man and his son. Finally he saw them crossing an open square near Pharaoh’s palace. He ran until he pulled in front of them. He held up his hand, but he couldn’t speak. He was out of breath.

The man stopped, his son perched on his shoulder. “What is it, boy?” he asked.

Panting deeply, Ben waved the hand he was holding up as a sign that the man should wait.

“I’m going to be late, boy. Now if you have something to say to me —”

“You saved my life!” Ben blurted between gasps.

The man looked at him curiously.

“Years ago,” Ben said. “I fell into the Nile, and you saved me.”

The man looked surprised. “So that was you,” he said. “And you remember me? You weren’t much older than my son.” And he looked up at the boy on his shoulder. “Well, you seem to have recovered nicely.”

Ben nodded. “I owe you my life.”

The man chuckled. “Well, if your God keeps visiting us with these plagues, none of our lives will be worth much.”

Ben looked deeply into the man’s eyes and said, “There will be one more.” And then he told the man what would happen, and what he must do for the sake of his son. Ben prayed that the man would listen and believe.

And then the time came. Once again Ben found himself sitting in the sand behind their home, petting the young lamb and listening as his parents and grandparents discussed what to do.

“None of this sounds like the traditions of our forefathers,” Ben’s father objected. “Blood on the doorposts, eating the feast with our sandals on —I can’t believe that Moses has heard this from God!”

Ben heard his grandfather breathe deeply. “And yet this is the tradition of our forefathers, my son. Throughout history God has raised up men to lead us. Some were like Abraham, strong and wise and true. Some were like Jacob, crafty and weak. And we, God’s people, followed them, even the weak leaders. Why? Because it was God we followed, the Master of all. We obeyed God. And if God is calling us to begin a new tradition tonight with this blood and this feast, then that is what we’ll do, Moses or no Moses.”

“We will perhaps be among the few who actually obey,” Ben’s father said. “I’ve heard many of the men at the brickyard scoffing at these new instructions from Moses and saying that they won’t —”

Ben could just imagine Grandfather’s response, shaking his head and raising one hand as if to hold off the words of Ben’s father. “I know, I know. And no one has had more to say against Moses than I have.” He paused. “But we will obey God. It is He who has turned the water to blood and loosed the hail and the darkness and the locusts on this land, not Moses. And it is He alone who has the power to save us.”

When Grandfather had spoken, there was no more to be said. Ben heard the rattle of metal as his grandfather chose the knife. Then his father appeared beside Ben, holding out his arms for the lamb. Grandfather, holding the thin, sharp knife, stood behind him. Both men were grim-faced. Ben offered the lamb up to his father and then turned his head away as the lamb began to bleat in fear. And when the bleating suddenly stopped, Ben held his face against the warm mud brick of their home and cried.

Later, Ben’s grandfather dipped a bunch of hyssop into the lamb’s blood and slapped it against the doorposts of their home. Then Ben’s mother and grandmother roasted the lamb’s meat over an open fire, and they ate it, all of it. They ate it standing, wearing their sandals, with Ben’s father and grandfather eating with one hand and holding their staffs with the other. It had been a strange feast. When Ben asked why, his father had simply said, “Because this is how God said it is to be done. It is the Lord’s Passover.”

Afterward, though, his mother had knelt beside him where he sat on his mat and said, “God is telling us that we are, finally, going to be leaving Egypt. And that when we do, we are to move in haste. That’s why we stood and wore our sandals as we ate, and why Father and Grandfather held their staffs in their hands, with their cloaks tucked into their belts, as if they were getting ready for a long journey.”

There was a sound of laughing, and of people moving past outside. Ben and his mother both crossed to the doorway and knelt there, peering out around the edges of the doorframe. Drunken men were dancing past, waving their own bunches of green, unbloodied hyssop over their heads, pointing and laughing at each doorway that had blood spread on it.

When they passed Ben’s house, one of the men saw him peering out. With his eyes wide and a horrible grin gleaming through his dark beard, the man reached grasping fingers toward Ben and growled, “I am the Angel of Death! And I am coming for yoooouuu!” He stepped toward the door, and Ben shrank back into the room behind his mother. He could hear the laughter of the men as they continued down the street.

“I wonder if their wives think this is so funny,” Ben’s mother said quietly.

“Let’s hope they have no sons,” his grandmother said.

For this was to be the final plague: Tonight, the Angel of the Lord would sweep over Egypt, and in those homes where the blood of the lamb had not been shed and splashed against the doorposts, the firstborn son would die. Throughout the land of Egypt.

Even, Ben thought, his heart aching, in the Red House.

He stood. “I want to go see Joel, to make sure that his family has the blood splattered on the doorposts of their —”

“No!” his father shouted, moving toward him and holding out a hand. “You may not leave. None of us may leave this house until morning.”

“But why?” Ben asked in a small voice. “I’m worried about —”

“Joel’s father will do what needs to be done,” Ben’s grandfather said quietly. “Tonight, great harm will be done in Egypt. And our only protection against that harm is to do exactly what God says must be done. To the letter. Every jot and tittle. And so we will. He said none of us should leave this home until morning. We’ll stay here.”

Ben lay on his mat that night, in the darkness and the quiet, waiting. He could tell that his parents were both awake as well, and he was sure that, in the next room, his grandparents were also awake. All were waiting.

Before they had gone to their own mats, both of his parents and his grandparents as well had come to Ben to say good night, to touch his face, to close their eyes and mouth a silent prayer. And as he watched his mother’s lips move silently, looking at the lines of worry on her face, it suddenly occurred to him that this was all for him. The lamb, the feast, the blood on the doorpost —all for him. Both his father and his grandfather had older brothers, still alive and living elsewhere —neither was a firstborn son. When the Angel of the Lord came this night, it was coming only for firstborn sons. And Ben was the only firstborn son in this home. All of this had been for him —all of the effort, all of the worry. The death of the lamb.

The night was surprisingly silent. And very dark. Ben huddled under his cloak, trembling. Had they made any mistakes? Forgotten anything that God had told them to do? Would he die because they’d done something wrong? Would the angel see the blood on their doorposts in this darkness?

From far down the street, a hideous wailing began. Ben’s heart hammered in his chest. Was that the sound of the angel? No, that was a woman screaming out her grief —and suddenly Ben knew why. Her son had just died. Her firstborn son. Just like him. Ben had to bite his lip to keep from yelling out in fear. It had begun.

Ben heard a quiet, whispering sound and realized that it was his mother, weeping quietly. She too was frightened. He felt a movement on his mat and reached out his hand and found hers. She had reached across to comfort him. Or perhaps to reassure herself that he was still alive. They grasped each other’s hands tightly. Ben could hear his parents whispering but couldn’t hear what they said.

Another wailing cry went up, closer now, only a house or two down the street from them, and Ben’s mother clutched Ben’s hand so tightly it hurt. This time it was the voices of a woman and a man, the parents, no doubt, of a young firstborn son whose life had just been taken by the angel.

The angel was getting closer! Their house would be next!

Ben’s heart pounded so loudly it felt as if it would burst out of his chest. And despite the wailing, he felt as if the night was perfectly still, perfectly quiet, waiting, waiting . . .

Lord, You protected me during the darkness. You brought me out of it to my home. Did You save me then only to let me die now? Please, Lord God, my father and grandfather have tried to obey You. Let me live now, to go with them out of Egypt to . . . to wherever You’re going to take us. Save my parents from the grief of —

And then a loud scream sounded in Ben’s ears, so hideous that he cried out. He feared that what he heard was the Angel of the Lord standing in the room with him, ready to steal his breath, to take away —

But no, that was no angel —that was a human scream. And it was coming from a house on the other side of their house. The other side. The Angel of the Lord had passed by. He had seen the blood on the doorpost and had passed by. He wasn’t going to take Ben. His father and grandfather had done everything right. “Every jot and tittle” as his grandfather had said.

Ben’s heart was still pounding. He was still trembling, and tears stung his eyes. He heard his mother’s weeping increase in her relief, and he could tell by the muffled sound of it that she had buried her face in her husband’s shoulder as she wept. Despite Ben’s fear and confusion, he had to smile when he heard the almost identical faint sound of his grandmother weeping in the other room.

And still his mother clutched his hand, stroking his fingers tenderly with her thumb.

She wouldn’t let go all night.