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toward the ocean and then north, away from the closest village and along a jungle trail that at times turned nearly impossible to negotiate due to the complete darkness of the double canopy of coconut palms and banana trees.
    They reached the banks of Paravur Lake and Yacoby stepped into the water with hardly a break in stride, and then he began a relaxed but powerful breaststroke that Dom could keep up with only by pumping his arms and legs in an Australian crawl.
    Dom wasn’t a fan of this lake. The first time he’d swam in it he’d climbed out on the far bank only to find himself twentyfive feet from a pit of cobras. Arik had laughed at Dom’s panic, and told him the cobras, like most dangerous creatures on earth, just wanted to be left alone, and they wouldn’t start anything if Dom didn’t.
    Tonight Dom saw a massive python in the reeds near the water’s edge, but he didn’t bother it and, true to Arik’s promise, it just slithered away, and the two men finished their swim without incident.
    From here they ran on a levee along a large cassava paddy, then entered the backwater jungle, running for two miles along the second dark trail of the evening.
    Now back on paved road, they reentered the village of North Paravur. A small tuk-tuk buzzed past them on the otherwise empty road, the two-stroke motor coughing as it stopped at a house to pick up a woman heading to the local bus station for an early ride to work down in Kochi. Arik and Dom waved to the woman and the driver as the tuk-tuk made a U-turn in front of them.
    Finally Arik slowed to a walk. He spoke through slightly labored breaths. “Two kilometers home, we’ll relax the rest of the way. I’m going light on you tonight.”
    Dom panted as quietly as possible; he could barely speak at all. Between gulps of air he squeezed out, “Appreciate it.”
    “You’ll really appreciate it in the morning. We will begin with some full contact work in the dojo, and follow this with a long swim before lunch.”
    Dom just nodded as he walked, gulping the hot, wet air. The lights of another vehicle appeared behind them seconds later, and the two men moved off the road as a large beige milk van passed on its way south.
    Arik cocked his head at the sight of the vehicle, but he said nothing.
    A minute later Dom and Arik walked by the local synagogue in the dark, and Arik said, “I have ancestors in the cemetery around back. The oldest Jewish community in India is right here, you know.”
    Dom just nodded, still too winded to talk, and he fought a smile. Arik had mentioned this fact a half-dozen times in the past month, after all. Yacoby traced his roots all the way back here, to the western shores of India, before his family had been uprooted and resettled in Israel. He had returned here to explore his past while on leave from the IDF several years ago, and as he toured the old synagogue and walked the streets of North Paravur, he decided someday he would come back here to live, to fortify the small Jewish community and raise his children on the same land his ancestors had walked generations earlier.
    Dom liked this about Arik. He was strong of character and purposeful of thought.
    T HE Y ACOBYS’ SMALL FARM was at the end of a long cul-de-sac off Temple Road, in an area near the synagogue and the local Jewish community. Thick jungle ran down both sides of the paved road, and the farm backed up to a massive Pokkali rice paddy. The neighborhood was cut off from the rest of the village, and for this reason both Arik and Dom noticed the vehicle parked off the side of the road ahead of them when they were still fifty yards away.
    It was the milk truck they had seen passing them ten minutes earlier.
    Yacoby took Dom by the arm and slowed his walk. “That doesn’t belong.”
    They approached from behind, more curious than concerned. They looked in the windows and saw it was empty.
    Arik looked down the road in the direction of his farm.
    Dom said, “I’ve seen it