The young monk took the master’s words to heart, and began to study the sutras night and day, putting their teachings into action whenever he could. One day Geshé Tenpa came upon him as he was bent over a page, and said, “It is worthwhile to study scriptures and accomplish virtuous acts, but far better to practice the noble Dharma.”

So the monk began to focus all of his attention on meditation. He meditated day in and day out. Inevitably, soon Geshé Tenpa found him, sitting on a cushion, concentrating with all his might. “Meditation is good,” the old teacher said, “but genuine Dharma practice would be even better.”

The monk, as you might imagine, was very confused. He had tried everything. “Sir!” he cried. “I wish above all else to practice the Dharma. What should I do?”

“Simply give up all clinging to this life,” Geshé Tenpa told him, before continuing on his way.

I made sure to hide the bowl under my bed before everyone else filtered in from rota. It was too hot to go outside for free hours that day. Even sunbathing would have been too laborious in heat like that. I lay on top of the sheets in my bunk with my face in my book: The Life of Saint Teresa of Ávila, her autobiography. It was an old, attractive hardcover with green edges that I’d borrowed from Serena a few nights before. I’d pulled it from her shelf on a whim, for something to do with my hands, but Serena nodded gravely when she saw what I’d chosen. “She knew everything,” she said.

When Laurel disappeared to take a shower, I climbed up on Janet’s bunk. She had taught me to play gin rummy in addition to poker. She usually won, of course, but I didn’t mind. Not least because when she didn’t win, we’d have to play three more times, until she was satisfied that her loss had been a fluke. After what Laurel had said about her father, her brothers, I had tried to lose a couple of times on purpose, but Janet could always tell what I was doing. She would refuse to play until I was willing to do my best.

“Cards?” I said now.

She pulled out the deck. It was decorated with vintage photos of boxers: Floyd Mayweather Jr. was the king of spades, Muhammad Ali the ace of diamonds. Laila Ali, the only woman in the deck, was assigned the lowly two of clubs. Sometimes Janet would take the cards out to the lawn and turn them over, one by one, using the value to dictate how many push-ups she’d do before she rested for a few seconds. Kings were high at twelve, she said, but she always did thirteen for Laila. She could get through the whole deck that way.

“How did it go?” she asked.