“Thanks,” said Neal, feeling like an ingrate, which was exactly how Graham wanted him to feel. Joe Graham was a major-league talent.

“I mean, you want to go back to gradu-ass school anyway, right?” Graham asked.

He must have talked to my professor already, Neal thought. Joe Graham rarely asked a question to which he didn’t already know the answer.

“You’ve talked with Dr. Boskin?” Neal asked.

Graham nodded cheerfully.

“And?”

“And he says the same thing we do. ‘Come home, darling, everything is forgiven.’”

Forgiven?! Neal thought. I only did what they asked me to do. For my troubles I got a bundle of money and a stretch in exile. Well, exile’s fine with me, thank you. It only cost me the love of my life and a year of my education. But Diane would have left me anyway, and I needed the time for research.

Graham didn’t want to give him too much time to think, so he said, “You can’t live like a monkey forever, right?”

“You mean a monk.”

“I know what I mean.”

Actually, Graham, Neal thought, I could live like a monk forever and be very happy.

It was true. It had taken some getting used to, but Neal was happy pumping his own water, heating it on the stove, and taking lukewarm baths in the tub outside. He was happy with his twice-weekly hikes down to the village to do the shopping, have a quick pint and maybe lose a game of darts, then lug his supplies back up the hill.

His routine rarely varied, and he liked that. He got up at dawn, put the coffee on, and bathed while it perked. Then he would sit down outside with his first cup and watch the sun rise. He’d go inside and make his breakfast-toast and two eggs over hard-and then read until lunch, which was usually cheese, bread, and fruit. He’d go for a walk over the other side of the moor after lunch, and then settle back in for more studying. Hardin and his dog would usually turn up about four, and the three of them would have a sip of whiskey, the shepherd and the sheepdog each having a touch of arthritis, don’t you know. After an hour or so, Hardin would finish telling his fishing lies, and Neal would look over the notes he had made during the day and then crank up the generator. He’d fix himself some canned soup or stew for dinner, read for a while, and go to bed.