The Center, Harriet and Nisha informed me, sourced much of its food from the large organic garden on the grounds. But the garden itself was not of particular interest to them. The appeal of the garden was the gardener. Luke lived at the Center year-round—though where exactly, neither of them knew. Not in the main building, where we slept, and where the rest of the staffers had their beds. Not in a tent. He seemed to sleep nowhere. Everywhere was also an option. He wasn’t the only man at the Center that summer—there were a few other male staff members, and some visiting monks who came and went on their own schedules—but for the girls, he may as well have been. Strong digging arms, etc.

“He’s kind of a legend,” Harriet said.

“He’s the most advanced practitioner here,” Nisha said. “Even though he’s really young.”

“He’s like a prodigy,” Harriet said.

“Our own personal holy man.”

“I heard he can actually levitate.”

“Meditate under water.”

“Fly, even.”

“He used to be engaged.”

“He’s not anymore.”

“He does something to the plants.”

“No one knows what it is.”

“He never lets anyone past the fence.”

“Especially girls.”

Nisha pointed me in the direction of the garden. “But I guess you’ll be the exception,” she said.

“Good luck,” said Harriet, in that singsong, ironic way she had, but when I looked back, neither girl was smiling.

The garden was just out of sight of the main buildings, down a matted path that curved gently around the side of the mountain. It was the size of a baseball field and, like many actual baseball fields, surrounded by a chain-link fence. Inside, a man was squatting among the plants, half-hidden by leaves but clearly wearing a pair of pink floral gardening gloves. For the briefest of moments, he looked exactly like my father. Then I blinked and shook away the association. He was much too young, for one thing. The shoulders were as wide, but the coloring was all wrong. The hair wasn’t right, or the face. And yet, even through the blinking, the shaking: there was something.

“Don’t touch the fence,” he said without looking up. “It’s electric.”

I hadn’t been planning to touch the fence, but now I found that I very much wanted to.

“Why?” I said.

He stood and wiped the sweat away from his face, leaving a few traces of dirt in his beard. His shirt was open a little. His throat shone like a bird’s. I turned my face up to the sky to avoid staring. Was it bluer this far up, or was I imagining it?

“Keeps out the animals,” he said. “Girls included.”

“They said I had rota here,” I said. The fence was tall, at least eight feet high. I thought I could hear it vibrating.

He considered this. “How are you with plants?” he asked.