Here is where he ended up: in the northernmost tip of Israel, in a 50-home village called Matat, about half a mile from the Lebanese border, on a hilltop in a tiny gated community that overlooks the Druze village where he buys his meat. A never-ending garden surrounds the house, growing cherries and sugar snap peas and romaine lettuce and pumpkins and two kinds of artichokes and lavender and fennel and isabela and mint and wild mint and river mint and sage and poppy seeds and cilantro and mammoth sunflowers and garlic and olives and apricots and cabbage—which he calls beautiful—and young okra and tomatoes and onions and thousands of raspberries arranged to climb up and around and through an arch. The garden is also dotted with ovens: a woodburning oven for pizza, a smoker, a tandoori oven that he bought in New Delhi, six total. There is a coop that holds his two chickens. There had been more, but a few days before I visited, 11 of them were killed ruthlessly in the middle of the night by a wolf. When he found the feathers of their remains, he was distraught. He put both his hands to his bald head and he cried. How he had loved waking up to the sounds of the chickens. He is building a newer, stronger coop.