He heard the scream before he saw her fall.
Ezri dropped the bitter roots he’d been peeling and ran. His sandals slapped the dry earth in a sharp rhythm as panic punched through his chest.
Reva lay curled beside the cooking pots, her face white with pain. Her lips were trembling. Her arm—
Ezri froze.
Two puncture marks. Swelling already.
"A serpent," she gasped. "It was under the cloth."
Ezri ripped the hem from his tunic and wrapped her arm tight. “Don’t move. Don’t sleep,” he said, pressing a hand to her clammy forehead. “Stay awake, Reva. Just stay with me.”
He’d seen this before. The others had gone stiff before sunset. Some already buried. Some not even wrapped.
And he knew why it was happening. They all did.
Ezri had cursed the manna himself just two nights ago—grinding it in his teeth like sand, muttering too loudly near the tents: “Quail again? Bread again? Weren’t there onions in Egypt?”
People had laughed. So had he.
Now his sister was dying in the dust.
A child screamed. Someone wailed farther down the camp. More bites. More poison. Panic thickened like smoke in every direction.
A shadow passed over him.
He looked up—Caleb, breathless.
“Moses just went into the Tent. He begged the Lord to stop this.”
Ezri stood. “And?”
“He’s building something,” Caleb said. “In the center of the camp. God gave him instructions.”
They ran.
It was taller than Ezri expected. A smooth wooden pole stood upright, and at the top, wrapped around it like it was alive—gleamed a serpent made of bronze.
Moses stood beside it, silent. Watching.
Ezri stared at the serpent. It looked too real. Too sharp.
“What is this?” he asked.
“Moses said anyone who’s been bitten has to look at it,” Caleb said. “If they do, they’ll live. That’s what God said.”
Ezri felt his stomach twist. “That doesn’t make sense.”
Caleb shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. It's the only thing that works.”
Ezri bent low and scooped Reva into his arms. Her breath was shallow now, her skin pale and cold.
They passed a man crawling. A woman holding her daughter’s lifeless hand.
Ezri didn’t stop.
He dropped to his knees at the foot of the pole and tilted Reva’s face upward.
“Look,” he whispered. “Reva. You have to look.”
She blinked, barely conscious. But her eyes found the bronze serpent.
She didn’t speak.
But the color came back to her cheeks. The swelling in her arm stopped.
She took a breath—and this time, it didn’t rattle.
Ezri collapsed beside her, shaking.
Later, after the sun had cooled, she slept in the shadow of the pole. Peacefully.
Ezri hadn’t looked yet.
Not really.
He stood now. Slowly. His eyes followed the pole up toward the serpent at the top.
God had used the image of the very thing that brought death—and made it the path to healing. One glance. One act of trust.
Ezri looked at it. Fully.
He didn’t feel thunder or fire. Just something lift off his chest.
Behind him, Reva stirred and reached for water.
Ezri didn’t move to help her.
He just stood there.
And let his tears fall.
He heard the scream before he saw her fall.
Ezri dropped the bitter roots he’d been peeling and ran. His sandals slapped the dry earth in a sharp rhythm as panic punched through his chest.
Reva lay curled beside the cooking pots, her face white with pain. Her lips were trembling. Her arm—
Ezri froze.
Two puncture marks. Swelling already.
"A serpent," she gasped. "It was under the cloth."
Ezri ripped the hem from his tunic and wrapped her arm tight. “Don’t move. Don’t sleep,” he said, pressing a hand to her clammy forehead. “Stay awake, Reva. Just stay with me.”
He’d seen this before. The others had gone stiff before sunset. Some already buried. Some not even wrapped.
And he knew why it was happening. They all did.
Ezri had cursed the manna himself just two nights ago—grinding it in his teeth like sand, muttering too loudly near the tents: “Quail again? Bread again? Weren’t there onions in Egypt?”
People had laughed. So had he.
Now his sister was dying in the dust.
A child screamed. Someone wailed farther down the camp. More bites. More poison. Panic thickened like smoke in every direction.
A shadow passed over him.
He looked up—Caleb, breathless.
“Moses just went into the Tent. He begged the Lord to stop this.”
Ezri stood. “And?”
“He’s building something,” Caleb said. “In the center of the camp. God gave him instructions.”
They ran.
It was taller than Ezri expected. A smooth wooden pole stood upright, and at the top, wrapped around it like it was alive—gleamed a serpent made of bronze.
Moses stood beside it, silent. Watching.
Ezri stared at the serpent. It looked too real. Too sharp.
“What is this?” he asked.
“Moses said anyone who’s been bitten has to look at it,” Caleb said. “If they do, they’ll live. That’s what God said.”
Ezri felt his stomach twist. “That doesn’t make sense.”
Caleb shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. It's the only thing that works.”
Ezri bent low and scooped Reva into his arms. Her breath was shallow now, her skin pale and cold.
They passed a man crawling. A woman holding her daughter’s lifeless hand.
Ezri didn’t stop.
He dropped to his knees at the foot of the pole and tilted Reva’s face upward.
“Look,” he whispered. “Reva. You have to look.”
She blinked, barely conscious. But her eyes found the bronze serpent.
She didn’t speak.
But the color came back to her cheeks. The swelling in her arm stopped.
She took a breath—and this time, it didn’t rattle.
Ezri collapsed beside her, shaking.
Later, after the sun had cooled, she slept in the shadow of the pole. Peacefully.
Ezri hadn’t looked yet.
Not really.
He stood now. Slowly. His eyes followed the pole up toward the serpent at the top.
God had used the image of the very thing that brought death—and made it the path to healing. One glance. One act of trust.
Ezri looked at it. Fully.
He didn’t feel thunder or fire. Just something lift off his chest.
Behind him, Reva stirred and reached for water.
Ezri didn’t move to help her.
He just stood there.
And let his tears fall.
