The Samaritan forgot when he’d chosen shuffle over stride. Pain hadn’t stopped him. Dragging his drooping left foot across hot, sharp rocks produced no sensation at all. After a dozen falls gave as many painless, oozing wounds, sliding seemed safer. He clutched his robe close with the remainder of his left hand. His right hand—still with solid thumb and index finger—raised, swinging his staff forward in the familiar cadence—thump, slide; thump, slide. Sometimes, he’d keep rhythm with one of his Hebrew companions—until they noticed. He thought it fun, but they said fun was not for punished sinners.