For some reason, I’d thought that because the people here had chosen to live in the same place in which they were born, resisting the urge to flee to some big, anonymous, polluted city, their stories were uninteresting. That had been stupid. In the end, the only thing that had really stopped me from coming here was me. I’d had a story about Thetford, and I’d told that story so often I’d started to believe it was true.
