4
Oxford, England. 10.22am
Leaving the hospital, Morgan caught a taxi back to Jericho in the centre of Oxford, a combination of terraced houses on the edge of the canal squashed together against the stately homes of the old town. She passed the great gates of Oxford University Press, the entrance flanked with towering Corinthian columns, stone the color of liquid honey in the morning sun. It could have been one of the prestigious University colleges, the last bastion of old school publishing in the heart of the city.
The taxi pulled up in front of her little two-up-two-down house. The tiny garden out front was overrun and weeds were encroaching onto the short path up to the faded blue door. It wasn’t much, but this was her home here in England, far away from the craziness of Israel and
