He shivered.

The train ride was far away now, the snorer most likely tucked up in the carriage she'd made her bed, traveling on. Now there were only footsteps between Max and survival. Footsteps and thoughts, and doubts.

Just as it was described, he found Munich Street and made his way along the footpath.

The town hall stood like a giant ham-fisted youth, too big for his age. The church disappeared in darkness the farther his eyes traveled upward.

He followed the map in his mind, from Pasing to Molching. It was late when he saw the town. His legs ached terribly, but he was nearly there -- the most dangerous place to be. Close enough to touch it.

If they killed him tonight, at least he would die alive.

Glowing pockets of streetlights.

Everything stiffened.

Dark, passive buildings.

The struggler:

It all watched him.

The juggling comes to an end now, but the struggling does not. I have Liesel Meminger in one hand, Max Vandenburg in the other. Soon, I will clap them together. Just give me a few pages.

He warned himself. "Keep your eyes open."

(German children were on the lookout for stray coins. German Jews kept watch for possible capture.)

The other was still holding Mein Kampf.

In keeping with the usage of number thirteen for luck, he counted his footsteps in groups of that number. Just thirteen footsteps, he would tell himself. Come on, just thirteen more. As an estimate, he completed ninety sets, till at last, he stood on the corner of Himmel Street.

In one hand, he held his suitcase.

Now he turned on to the side street, making his way to number thirty-three, resisting the urge to smile, resisting the urge to sob or even imagine the safety that might be awaiting him. He reminded himself that this was no time for hope. Certainly, he could almost touch it. He could feel it, somewhere just out of reach. Instead of acknowledging it, he went about the business of deciding again what to do if he was caught at the last moment or if by some chance the wrong person awaited him inside.

Both were heavy, and both were handled with a gentle secretion of sweat.

Of course, there was also the scratchy feeling of sin.

How could he do this?

How could he show up and ask people to risk their lives for him? How could he be so selfish?

Thirty-three.

They looked at each other.

Slowly, then, the struggler leaned forward, his cheek against the wood, and he removed the key from his fist.

The house was pale, almost sick-looking, with an iron gate and a brown spit-stained door.

From his pocket, he pulled out the key. It did not sparkle but lay dull and limp in his hand. For a moment, he squeezed it, half expecting it to come leaking toward his wrist. It didn't. The metal was hard and flat, with a healthy set of teeth, and he squeezed it till it pierced him.