Category Archives: Books by David Kitz

Looking for a Summer Read

26 Sunday Jun 2022

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Are you looking for a can’t-put-it-down summer read?

Look no further.

With 4.8 on Amazon’s 5 star  rating scale The Soldier Who Killed a King will not disappoint.4485 SHARABLE-1

Here is the most recent review:

Rarely have I been so captivated by a book! Well researched and highly credible. It should be made into a movie. By coincidence, I started reading it on Palm Sunday, and as the week progressed, each day of Holy Week coincided with the day in the book. I will read it again and again during Holy Week in years to come and will highly recommend it to friends.   — Eugene Aucoin

Better yet, the paperback edition of The Soldier Who Killed a King  is now available at 64% off on the American Amazon website.

For details click here.

Excerpt 21 from The Soldier Who Killed a King

16 Saturday Apr 2022

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A journey to the cross is a journey to repentance. It’s a journey to deep personal change. Will you take this journey with me?

Date: Seven in the morning, Saturday, April 8, 30 A.D.
Annas meets with Pontius Pilate and asks that Jesus’ tomb be guarded.

Pilate was seated even as I saw him yesterday. He wore a rather haggard look, as though he had slept on the bloodstained rocks of Golgotha. He motioned for the temple delegation to step forward. I waited at the back of the room in a repetition of the governor’s late-day interview with Joseph of Arimathea.
Annas bowed and began. “Sir, we remember that while he was still alive that deceiver said, ‘After three days I will rise again.’”
A strange tingle ran through me as he said this. Pilate rubbed his hands.
Annas continued. “So give the order for the tomb to be made secure until the third day. Otherwise, his disciples may come and steal the body and tell the people that he has been raised from the dead.” Then he concluded by lifting a bony finger and saying, “This last deception will be worse than the first.”
On hearing this, Pilate sighed deeply, then beckoned me forward. There was worry in his eyes. “The centurion here, Marcus Longinus, is fully acquainted with the case of the Galilean prophet. He oversaw his crucifixion.” Then he addressed me directly. “Is that not so?”
I nodded. “Yes, sir. It is as you say.”
With that he raised his hands and motioned both parties together. Then, speaking directly to all of us, he said, “Take a guard. Go, make the tomb as secure as you know how.” Rubbing his guilt- stained hands once more, the Badger got up and skulked off. Free WW-e FACEBOOK-2 (2)Annas was jubilant. With eagerness in his voice, he turned to address me. “How soon can you have your troops at the tomb?”
“We should be there in about an hour.”
“Excellent! These two gentlemen will meet you there. They will ensure that all is in order. Understood?”
“Yes. Understood,” I said. Then I addressed the Pharisees. “Do you know which tomb? Do you know where it is?”
Annas answered for them. “Ah, they know it well.” He gave a contemptuous snort. “The traitor’s tomb, Joseph of Arimathea!”
“I will bring my men and meet you there then.” I gave a slight bow with my head. The chamberlain saw us to the door, and then I was off, back to my home.
I shook my head several times in disbelief as I trudged back. Every time I tried to extricate myself from this Messiah pit, this kingdom of God affair, this abysmal hole, I would find myself sucked in even deeper. And now it had happened again. Was there no escape?
Would I ever be allowed to speak my mind before Pilate?

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Excerpt 19 from The Soldier Who Killed a King

13 Wednesday Apr 2022

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A journey to the cross is a journey to repentance. It’s a journey to deep personal change. Will you take this journey with me?

Date: About noon, Friday, April 7 30A.D.
The crucifixion of Jesus.

Now there was movement on the Mother’s Hill. A middle-aged couple came down. Their heads were hanging. They clung to each other, supported each other, every step an anguish. They made their way before the encircling pikemen.
I knew who they were—knew why they had come. Here were the broken parents, broken beyond this world’s repair. I met them at the base of the hill, told them they had some time.
They advanced up the Skull. She fell, fell whimpering before her son. Thaddaeus. Boisterous soldiers fell silent and then walked off, right off the hill. The family was alone with their grief.
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Having witnessed this grim but welcoming reception, another party stepped off the Mother’s Hill and advanced to Golgotha. This was a group of five. The women clung to one another in couples. They were shepherded by a tall young man. His fresh face and scant beard bore witness to his youth. I recognized him. He had been with Jesus, had stood closest to him.
He introduced himself. He said his name was John. I received his party—ushered them by the outer ring of soldiers.
They were bowed by the sight. They clung to one another afresh, repulsed by the horror of what met their eyes.
After a few moments the young man came before two of the huddled older women. He stooped to speak with one of the women—the Christ’s mother, I assumed. Then with his arm about her shoulder, John advanced up the rock mound.
Jesus saw them.
He struggled.
“Woman . . . behold your son!”
There was a double- edged meaning here, almost too painful for words. At first I thought he was simply referring to himself—to his own wretched state. And perhaps on one level he was.
His body sagged. But then he thrust himself up and forward for another breath, and with his next words his meaning became clear. To the young man, to his disciple, he said, “Behold your mother!”
He had committed his mother into this disciple’s care. She fell to her knees. She trembled, unable to speak. Only wretched sobbing was heard from within the circle of the hill.
In due time I led both families off. They left willingly. This was too much to bear, too much to watch.
From his cross Animal watched the Mother’s Hill. But no one came. That’s when he broke—broke like a clay pot dropped onto the hard rock of the Skull.
He sobbed. He moaned.
His tears flowed like rivers into his dark, young beard.
But no mother came. No one came at all. Free WW-e FACEBOOK-2 (2)
The wind picked up. The sky grew dark. Then it grew darker yet. The horses began to neigh and paw the ground. In the distance a dog barked. It was a bark that changed to a howl but ended in a whimper. I looked about. I could see it on every face. It was fear. Raw fear. This was not the dark of cloud or storm. This was the sun covering, hiding its face from what it saw upon the earth.
A total darkness descended, as black as any night.
There was a discord here—a discord utter and complete. If heaven and earth had come into some perfect union—some perfect harmony—on the day Jesus arrived in this city, it was in blaring dissonance now. Blaring dissonance echoed off the empty chambers of my soul.
It was a deafening darkness.
The mocking crowds fell silent. The highway traffic stopped. All was still.
Silent.
Only the three men were heard. Heard in the darkness. Three men working to maintain this perverted thing called life.
Working.
Pushing up.
Up to catch a breath.

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Excerpt 18 from The Soldier Who Killed a King

12 Tuesday Apr 2022

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A journey to the cross is a journey to repentance. It’s a journey to deep personal change. Will you take this journey with me?

Date: Nine thirty in the morning, Friday, April 7 30A.D.
The crucifixion of Jesus.

I tipped the bucket to one side to get enough swill to fill the dipper. I offered it to Jesus. He took a sip, worked the liquid around in his mouth, discerned the true nature of this bitter potion, and then spit it out. It left a dark stain on the dull gray rock near his feet.
“It will dull the pain,” I said emphatically.
He raised his eyes. They locked with mine. I saw in him the same look, the samebiblical-fiction-award-2017_orig determination I saw on the first day I set eyes on him, the day he rode the donkey into this city. I could still see he had a destination in mind. Some mystical purpose he somehow felt compelled to fulfill.
I dropped my gaze. He must be a fool. In his condition, in this situation, he must be a fool. A fool who unnerved me, but a fool nonetheless.
Once more I offered the drink.
With lips pressed tight, he shook his head.
He was a fool. An arrogant fool! A fool who thinks he’s tough—who can handle this—who can take it straight.
We would see who’s tough. I would show him who’s tough!
Let the big show begin.
“Now, boys!” I called out to the crew. Still wearing the purple robe, he was snatched like a young child and slammed down onto the crossbeam.
A cheer went up.
My right hand seized the hammer from Octavio. My left fumbled, then dove into, the nail pouch.
I dropped my knee onto his fingers.
Stabbed the sharpened point of the spike into the base of the palm.
Raised the hammer.
Xchuuuung!
An enormous cheer went up from the crowd.
Blood spurted across my thigh.
Xchuuuung!
Xchuuuung!
Xchuuuung!
One in.
The Christ was silent. Still . . .
Octavio urged me on. “That’s it, Marcus!”
I sprang to my feet, remembering the full rush of battle. Then scrambled to the other arm. From just off the hill, in the throng, a chant began and established itself. “More. More. More. More.”
Knee on fingers.
“More!”
Spike jabbed in.
“More!”
Hammer raised.
“More!”
Xchuuuung!
“More!”
Xchuuuung!
“More!”
Xchuuuung!
Two in. The Christ was silent.
Still . . . He was still beneath the piercing blows.
I rose, panting. Heart pounding. Bloodied hand dripping. Seeing a stain free area farther up my hairy arm, I wiped it across my sweat- drenched brow.
Octavio saluted me with a smile and a thumbs-up signal.
The crowd roared their approval.
This time it was Octavio who yelled, “Hoist him up.”
The Christ was dragged gasping—desperately gasping—to an upright position before the death mast.
Now they could see him, and the crowd went wild with frenzied excitement. Cheering. Clapping. Hooting. Bloodlust took hold.
The props were applied to the arms of the crossbeam.
A new chant went up. 4485 SHARABLE-2
“Raise him up!”
“Raise him up!”
“Raise him up!”
Octavio signaled, and the men in back lifted the beam on which the Christ was pinned above their heads.
Then we all saw it—saw the obvious. He was still clothed. The purple robe billowed out as it was caught by a sudden cold gust of wind. The sight of it brought all my frenzied demons to the fore.
I stepped before him, looked into his agonized face, and said, “You won’t be needing this . . . king of the Jews.”
Then to the cheers of my men, I spit into his face. I added my spittle to all the rest that had dried and was clinging to his beard.
I untied the royal robe and dropped it in a heap to my right. Finally, with a wicked smile, and to cheers all around, I snatched his breechcloth from off his loins.
I tossed it to Octavio. He held it up. A trophy!
We laughed. We all laughed. I
t was a laugh not our own.
I recognized it. It was Herod’s laugh.
When he had regained some composure, the head jailer started the final count.
“Ready . . . one . . . two . . . three . . . now!”
To chants of “Raise him up, raise him up,” the Christ, the Messiah, the king, was lifted up—up before the world.
His head twisted from side to side in writhing agony. His whip-sliced back slammed against the upright as he was dragged higher.
Then with a flesh-tearing lurch, the notch in the horizontal beam found its match in the vertical. The rope was flung around, then drawn tight, securing the two cross members as one.
The silent Christ hung. He hung naked and bleeding before a jeering world.
Only the last spike remained. Awkwardly, I fumbled for it.
But a creeping unease overshadowed me. I glanced over my shoulder. Claudius stood alone, off to the side. Silent . . . He was ghastly pale and silent, transfixed by the sight before him.
I handed the last nail and the hammer back to Octavio and said, “You do it.” He snorted his surprise, but then set quickly to his task.

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Excerpt 17 from The Soldier Who Killed a King

11 Monday Apr 2022

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A journey to the cross is a journey to repentance. It’s a journey to deep personal change. Will you take this journey with me?

Date: Eight forty in the morning, Friday, April 7 30A.D.
The trial of Jesus ends. The verdict is delivered.
Characters: Pontius Pilate (the Badger), Caiaphas (the Weasel)

Pilate was already seated, ready to pronounce judgment. A thin smile was now on his face. The cunning Badger would make the most of his final moves. When Jesus was in position, he began. Once more he motioned in the direction of the Christ, and to all assembled he announced, “Here is your king.”
“Take him away!” came the instant response. “Take him away! Crucify him!”
There was vehement insistence coming from the crowd. Some began to hurl dust in theBiblical fiction winner 2017 air. This was verging on a riot, a point that was surely obvious to the governor, yet he played them on.
“Shall I crucify your king?” Pilate called back to the throng.
“We have no king but Caesar,” the Weasel spat back.
The Badger’s eyebrows shot up.
The governor smiled and nodded. It was a smile of triumphant satisfaction. We have no king but Caesar. The Badger mulled over these words. I knew he had waited years for these words. After all he had endured in this place, wasn’t it well worth hearing this confession from the high priest’s mouth?
Ironically, the governor had Jesus to thank for the high priest’s sudden conversion and submission to imperial Rome. This declaration would never have come forth from the Weasel’s lips, except to secure the conviction of the good Galilean. Caiaphas was willing to stoop before Rome in order to spill the blood of this prophet. Here was the true measure of his hatred for the Northern Messiah.
Pilate knew all this, and he drew a good measure of perverse satisfaction from it. He understood his foe.
He called for his personal attendant to bring a basin of water. Now he would lay the blame where the bloody blame belonged. With the attendant holding the basin before him, Pilate made a great show of washing his hands before the crowd, and with insistence in his voice, he declared, “I am innocent of the blood of this man.”
Here was the feint, the great pretend.
Next came the dodge.
With water still dripping from his hands, he looked out over the crowd and declared, “You yourselves see to it.”
He spoke as though he had abdicated—bore no responsibility for the blood that now trickled down Jesus’s back. He absolved himself of that and of all that would soon flow on Golgotha.
This Badger could throw a bit of dirt.
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It was fitting for Annas the aged priest to respond. It was he who answered for the people. With his finger pointed at Jesus and his gaze fixed on him, he replied, “His blood be on us.” Then he paused as though looking down through the generations of time. “And on our children,” he added with a cold, sardonic stare.
Out on the street the people answered, “Yes!” They nodded their agreement with this verdict.

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Excerpt 16 from The Soldier Who Killed a King

10 Sunday Apr 2022

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A journey to the cross is a journey to repentance. It’s a journey to deep personal change. Will you take this journey with me?

Date: Eight fifteen in the morning, Friday, April 7, 30 A.D.
Jesus endures the whipping post.

His body quivered with the shock of each blow. But he was silent. Silent and gasping. “Thirteen.
“Fourteen.”
I moved to one side, trying to get a look at his face. His thorn-crowned brow was pressed to the post.
“Fifteen.
“Sixteen.”
He was mouthing a word with each blow. What was it?
“Seventeen.
“Eighteen.”
It came with a gasp. Barely audible.
“Father.
“Father.”
At twenty I called a halt. They had traversed the whole of his body, from shoulders to feet. It was a bloody path. I examined the wounds—more damage than I expected.
His breath came in huge gulps. His eyelids flickered. He remained conscious. At least he remained conscious.
Centur. Sw
I stepped over to Gaius. I cut another three studs from his whip. Then I did the same for Lucius.
“Harder! Harder!” came a shout from above and behind me. It was Cestas—Cestas going wild on the balcony of the guest chamber. He couldn’t wait for the lashing to resume. Like a giddy child, he bounced up and down and hollered for more.
I gave an upward nod to Lucius and then began calling out the stroke count again. “Twenty-one.
“Twenty-two.”
They started over at the shoulders.
“Twenty-three.
“Twenty-four.”
Once more the frenzied cheers went up.
“Twenty-five.
“Twenty-six.”
Each man aimed to outdo the other; each blow was more savage than the last.
“Twenty-seven.
“Twenty-eight.”
He did not cry out, unlike many men I have seen. He was silent beneath the cracking whip, uncommonly silent.
“Twenty-nine.
“Thirty.”
Stroke by flailing stroke they moved once more across his bloodied frame. A quivering, rutted mess. That’s what was left by the time we reached forty. I stood near him—watched his breathing. It was fast but shallow, very shallow by the time we finished.
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Excerpt 15 from The Soldier Who Killed a King

09 Saturday Apr 2022

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A journey to the cross is a journey to repentance. It’s a journey to deep personal change. Will you take this journey with me?

Date: Seven fifteen in the morning, Friday, April 7 30A.D.
Jesus is questioned by Herod Antipas.

“Jesus of Nazareth,” the Fox pompously intoned. “The prophet of Galilee. I’ve longed to see you, my most noteworthy subject.”
With that Herod arose, and holding his robe shut, he approached the Messiah. He inspected the taller man, walked fully around him. Noticing the welts and the dried spittle, he looked my way and asked, “Is this your work, centurion?”
“No, Your Majesty.” My eyes darted to Jonathon and back to Herod again.
“Ah, the high priest’s work!” the Fox remarked grandly as he turned to Jonathon. “I didn’t think you temple boys were capable.”
This bit of sarcasm drew an acknowledging nod and a slight smile from the chief temple guard. Here was a backhanded compliment from the pretentious Fox.
“Your Majesty, I have here a letter from His Excellency the governor and certain chargesJames Wri brought by—”
The king halted me with an uplifted hand and a shake of his head.
“That can wait, centurion.” He paused, and then with a certain dramatic flourish, he began. “We have here a man of rare talent. He makes the lame to walk, the blind to see, has cured the leper. I have heard reports that he has raised the dead.” And then spotting a gold chalice on the inlaid table, he seized it by the stem and with relish declared, “He has even turned water into wine.”
He lifted the chalice before the Messiah and grandly asked, “Isn’t that so, Jesus?”
The Messiah did not answer him a word.
If Herod was perturbed by this silence, he didn’t show it. “Servant girl!” he hollered. “Servant girl!”
An attractive young woman entered from the door on the left, and with short, quick steps, she made her way before the tetrarch. She bowed low.
“Fill this chalice with water and bring it back.”
He stared after her as she left.
I noticed Herodias following his hungry gaze.
“Soon we will see if this prophet can perform the works of which we heard.” He nodded his head with an eager enthusiasm. Then addressing Jesus, he asked, “Tell us of your magic arts.”
The Messiah fixed his eyes straight ahead. He looked beyond the Fox and did not answer him a word. His silence was challenging enough.
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Excerpt 14 from The Soldier Who Killed a King

08 Friday Apr 2022

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A journey to the cross is a journey to repentance. It’s a journey to deep personal change. Will you take this journey with me?

Date: Seven in the morning, Friday, April 7 A.D.
Jesus trial before Pontius Pilate continues.

In due course we all resumed our previous positions. At this point I fully expected Pilate to pronounce the prisoner guilty of high treason. After all, this Messiah had freely confessed to being a king. But I can only guess that Jesus’s words did have an impact on the governor. Upon taking his seat, Pilate announced, “I find no basis for a charge against him.”
A murmur arose from beyond the pikemen.
Caiaphas was livid. He let fly with a torrent of accusations, the last of these being that Jesus had threatened to destroy the temple and then rebuild it in three days.
Showing extraordinary patience, Pilate let the high priest rage. When Caiaphas’s fury was spent, Pilate turned to Jesus and asked, “Don’t you hear the testimony they are bringing against you?”
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But Jesus answered him not a word. His silence itself became a challenge. Pilate had cleared him. Why should he answer to these further allegations?
Though stunned by this silence, Pilate repeated his position. “I find no basis for a charge against him.”
Once again discontent began to rumble through the crowd on the street.
At this point I expected the trial to end and the prisoner to be released. Let the crowds rage. Rome had spoken.
But Annas stepped smartly into the breach. “He stirs up the people all over Judea by his teaching. He started in Galilee and has come all the way here.”
“Is he a Galilean?” Pilate asked. “Under Herod’s jurisdiction?”
“Yes,” the flustered Caiaphas confessed, not knowing where this questioning might lead. “Then to Herod he should go,” was Pilate’s prompt response. “Why drag me into this?” He sneered at the high priest.
The governor seemed weary of the whole affair, and for the third time that morning, he found a way to dodge and retreat.
This trial was over.
The dark-eyed Badger rose from his judgment seat. He walked over to Jesus, the accused, and with a rather cunning smile and a nod, he said, “Off to Herod you will go, man of truth.”

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Excerpt 13 from The Soldier Who Killed a King

07 Thursday Apr 2022

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A journey to the cross is a journey to repentance. It’s a journey to deep personal change. Will you take this journey with me?

Date: Six fifty in the morning, Friday, April 7 A.D.
Jesus trial before Pontius Pilate continues.

When we entered the judgment hall, the dark-eyed Badger was seething. He knew Caiaphas was using him. He had said so to the assessor. He let fly a string of profanity. “He has me trapped!” he snarled. “Trapped like a rat in a stone water jar.” And with that he tossed the list of charges onto his desk.
James ThtThen he turned to Jesus in the center of the room. He looked him over, walked fully around him. Pilate sighed and nervously ran his fingers through his thinning hair. He made a smacking sound with his lips and asked, “Are you the king of the Jews?”
“You have said so,” came his equivocal answer.
This answer left the governor rocking on his heels. He brought a finger to his lips in pensive thought.
Jesus was not making an acquittal any easier.
But after a moment Jesus continued. “Is that your own idea, or did others talk to you about me?”
“Am I a Jew?” Pilate shot back with an ample measure of haughty contempt. “Your own people and chief priests handed you over to me.” He continued the questioning. “What is it you have done?”
“My kingdom is not of this world,” Jesus said, and to drive home this point, he added, “If it were, my servants would fight to prevent my arrest by the Jewish leaders. But now my kingdom is from another place.”
Certain words that Claudius had spoken came echoing back into my mind. He had been convinced that this kingdom Jesus spoke of was somehow different from kingdoms as we know them. Now I heard it from this would-be Messiah’s mouth. He was no armed insurrectionist, and he had offered the actions of his followers as proof.
But Pilate seized on that word—kingdom. “You are a king, then!” Pilate deduced.
With calm, clear deliberation the prophet spoke. “You say that I am a king. In fact, the reason I was born and came into the world is to testify to the truth. Everyone on the side of truth listens to me.”
It almost seemed from this response that Jesus was operating from, and speaking on,Biblical fiction winner 2017 some higher plane—a dimension I had witnessed him operate from during the healings at the temple. He was inviting Pilate to join him in discovering this higher ground of truth.
Pilate would not be moved. They were speaking past each other.
“What is truth?” Pilate shrugged. The question was rhetorical. He had no intention of being dragged into a philosophical discussion with this prophet of the Jewish masses. Once again, the Badger retreated.
Grabbing the list of charges from off his desk, he motioned for us to follow him back outside.

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Excerpt 12 from The Soldier Who Killed a King

06 Wednesday Apr 2022

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A journey to the cross is a journey to repentance. It’s a journey to deep personal change. Will you take this journey with me?

Date: Six thirty in the morning, Friday, April 7 A.D.
Jesus trial before Pontius Pilate begins.

The governor peered over the heads of the men directly in front of him. He scanned the assemblage on the street, took in the significance of it all, and then cleared his throat. “Where is the man?”
Jonathon turned quickly. On reaching the first step, he beckoned beyond our pikemen to three of his own temple guards, who then advanced with their prisoner—Jesus of Nazareth.
Picture Cent-helmetHe was a mess, almost unrecognizable. His hair was matted. He had been spat upon. The spittle was drying in his beard. There were red welts on his face and neck, a blood-oozing gash above his left eye, a discernable limp to his gait.
It was apparent that during the night they’d had their way with him.
He was escorted to a position directly before me. Intuitively I knew he was my man now, my charge.
A twitch of Pilate’s eyebrow hinted his surprise at the condition of the man.
“Loose him,” he directed with a slight wave of his hand.
Two temple guards hastened to unfasten the leather strap binding Jesus’s arms to his torso. The third man freed the prisoner’s hands. With a second wave of his hand, Pilate dismissed the temple guards, who repositioned themselves on the first step and stood facing the proceedings.
Pilate took a seat on the throne of judgment, which had been brought out for him by two attendants. Raising the scroll in his left hand, he asked, “What charges are you bringing against this man?”
It was clear from this gesture that he was referring to the charges written on the scroll he now clutched in his hand. Undoubtedly he had read these charges himself, and in all likelihood had discussed them
with the assessor standing to his right. But he wanted the high priest to articulate them. “If he were not a criminal, we would not have handed him over to you,” Caiaphas said with a huff.
A rather cheeky response, I thought.
“Take him yourselves and judge him by your own law,” Pilate answered.
Here Annas interjected, “But we have no right to execute anyone.”
A devious response if there ever was one. The temple, in fact, routinely acted as bothbiblical-fiction-award-2017_orig judge and executioner in religious matters and had been granted full authority to do so. Death by stoning was commonplace. I had witnessed Annas himself cast the first stone at some hapless adulteress within the first week of my arrival here ten years ago. No, the temple had the right to execute, and these crafty fellows could surely find grounds to execute this man. They just didn’t want the blood on their hands. They did not want to be blamed for the death of this rabbi. For many he had become the hope of the nation. No, they wanted us to do the job, to act as their executioners. They wanted him judged and executed under Roman law. What Caiaphas said next made this abundantly clear.
“We have found this man”—he aimed a bony finger at Jesus—“subverting our nation. He opposes payment of taxes to Caesar and claims to be Messiah, a king.”
Now here was a capital offense—a capital offense under Roman law.
The Weasel had backed the Badger into a corner, and he was relishing the moment. These charges would need further examination. But Pilate would not proceed in full view of a gloating high priest, urged on by his consorts and a handpicked audience. He retreated.
He abruptly arose from his throne, fixed his eyes on me, and said, “Bring the man.” He motioned with a jerk of his head toward the great doors behind us and then marched off into his residence.
I stepped down to escort Jesus, but he was already in motion. It became clear that the steps were painful for him. I put my hand to his elbow.

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