Chapter 1

The bar sat just off the main drag, far enough from the lake to escape the steady flow of trekkers and traffic, but close enough to catch a hint of breeze off Phewa Lake when the air stirred. The Blue Daal was mostly outdoor seating, a low-key blend of wood and stone with a scattering of rickety fans, Wi-Fi that worked most days, and a short menu of local beer and Western comfort food. It was the kind of place that didn’t ask questions, which was partly why Jack liked it.

Tom Wilcox raised his glass across the table. “To bureaucracy behind us and god-knows-what ahead.”

Jack clinked bottles with him. “I’ll drink to that.”

The amber liquid was cold, slightly bitter, and better than Jack had expected. He’d had worse in nicer places.

“Orientation wraps up officially on Monday,” Tom went on, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. “After that, it’s all real — host families, projects, whatever we just promised to do for the next couple of years.”

Jack leaned back in his chair. “I still don’t know if I talked myself into this or out of something else.”

“You’re not the only one,” Tom said, chuckling. “I just hit forty-five and decided I’d rather be digging compost pits in the Himalayas than sitting in meetings about sustainability metrics. Not exactly a midlife crisis, but close enough.”

Jack smiled, but didn’t say anything right away. That line—not a crisis, but close enough—hit too close. He’d just turned thirty-eight. Two marriages in, two divorces out. A house sold, a dog rehomed, a job left without much ceremony. He’d wanted a drastic change, and couldn’t resist the call of the Peace Corps. A cliche, perhaps, for those seeking a new direction in life. But the more he looked into the Corps, the better it sounded. Soon, he’d signed two years of his life away. He had packed what was left of himself into two suitcases and a heavy-hearted grin.

“You ever think about what happens after this?” he asked finally.

Tom took another sip. “Every damn day. But I figure that’s a problem for Future Tom.”

They sat in easy silence after that, watching the dusk soften the edges of the surrounding buildings. A waiter lit a citronella coil under their table. A pair of German trekkers wandered in and ordered something in halting English. The Blue Daal would become familiar soon — a place to swap stories, duck the heat, and feel normal when nothing else did.

Tom checked his phone. “I’m meeting my host family tomorrow afternoon. You?”

“Tonight,” Jack said, standing and brushing his palms off on his pants. “Wish me luck.”

“You’ll be fine,” Tom said. “You’ve got that ‘quiet and respectable’ thing going.”

“Let’s hope they think so.”

They parted with a clap on the shoulder and the kind of half-wave that only people used to temporary friendships give. Jack headed east, away from the bar, away from the lake, the evening thick and buzzing with insects and electricity lines.

The walk gave him time to think, which he didn’t always welcome.

A fresh start. That’s what he kept telling people — and himself. A chance to do something meaningful, to get outside his own mess. And he had. He was eight thousand miles from everything familiar. In Nepal, of all places — Pokhara, to be precise. No one here knew the man he used to be, or the mistakes he couldn’t quite seem to stop making. That anonymity was its own kind of relief.

Ahead, a string of prayer flags fluttered between two trees. Below them, a narrow footpath turned off the main road and disappeared uphill.

Jack paused, checked the address he’d written in his notebook, and adjusted the strap on his bag.

Time to meet the family.

Jack turned away from the narrow footpath that led to the Subedi house. There was still some light left in the sky, and he wasn’t quite ready to cross the threshold just yet. He’d arrive soon enough — after all, first impressions only happened once, and he didn’t want to make his with a sweat-soaked shirt and that buzzed-on-a-beer look he always got in heat like this.

He veered left instead, following a curved lane past a small shop with faded signage and racks of instant noodles hanging out front. Chickens clucked somewhere nearby. A boy in a red T-shirt stood by a stone tap, splashing his feet in the overflow while an older woman filled a bucket and glanced sideways at Jack without saying anything.

The houses grew tighter together here — two stories, many with corrugated tin roofs, painted in soft pastels that had weathered beautifully into the landscape. Laundry flapped from balconies. A scooter buzzed past, its rider expertly weaving around a goat that had chosen the center of the road for its evening stroll.