When he first left England he was a young man with no particular destination. He found himself months later in the hills of Cambodia, squatting by a cook fire and sharing millet from a single bowl with three strangers, the act of eating their only common language.
His name was acquired perhaps in Tibet or Nepal. By this time, the identity of the British boy had long since disappeared, along with any trace of accent. He hardly spoke anyway, mistrusting words, preferring the transient solidity of gesture.
She had found him at last, this long-ago sister who begged him to return.