Oh. My. Gods. - Weebly

get paroled. Or until I make friends with someone who has a boat.
Now there’s a plan.
When I step onto the boat I’m smiling at the thought of befriending
someone with transport.
Damian leads Mom to a bench seat on one side of the rear deck
and I head for the opposite bench. Hopefully this boat ride will be
less earthquake-like than the last, and I don’t want my potential
calm disturbed by disgusting baby talk or anything.
I think I’m out of hearing distance.
Not that Damian respects my isolation.
I rest my head against the back of the bench and start to close
my eyes when he moves into the seat next to me. Prying one eye
open to glare at him, I ask, “Yeah?”
Mom is sitting on the other side of him.
“Phoebe, there is something you need to know before we arrive
at Serfopoula.” He folds his hands carefully in his lap. “Are you
familiar with Plato’s Academy?”
The big philosophy school where a bunch of old Greek guys got
together to talk about intense stuff like the origin of life and what
kind of poison worked best? “Yeah.”
“Well,” Damian continues, “there is more to the Academy’s history
than most textbooks contain. In the sixth century, the Roman
emperor Justinian issued an edict demanding the Academy be
closed and forbade formal philosophical education. The . . . ahhem
. . . benefactors of the school were not prepared to see it closed
so they moved it here. To Serfopoula.”
I don’t know Damian real well, but I think it’s not typical for him
to ah-hem in the middle of a sentence. He seems like a very formal
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