The whole process—which lasted no more than a week—reminded him of experiences he’d had up in the Rockies, trying to get a campfire lit on a cold day with wet wood: it persistently failed until it didn’t, and then it caught fire and he wondered why it had ever seemed difficult. In short order he was volunteering at the langar. The ladies who did the cooking wouldn’t let him anywhere near actual food prep, of course; they were hygiene fanatics, and Laks didn’t know the procedures. But they were glad of his help unloading big sacks of flour and rice and lentils from the trunks of cars.