That evening, Frank made his way from his simple three-room stone-built home along a winding street to the modest wood-framed and stucco-clad monastery located on the north side of the village. Its gabled roof and salmon-colored walls looked out over the village with a paternal presence. Rounding a bend, he came to a courtyard nestled beside the monastery. In back of it was a small whitewashed building with a dark green band running under its eaves. An old water pumping station was housed within it. A sign nearby proclaimed it as a Hillary project.
Frank walked past the courtyard up to the monastery’s front door and entered a broad stone-tiled courtyard. Sitting on a carved wooden bench across the courtyard was the old lama reading from his book of prayers. He looked up as Frank strode to
