He booked two seats. He only needs one. Delhi, 5:15 in the morning. A cross-border bus to Kathmandu, forty men going home for Dashain with their bundles tied in blue nylon rope, and one passenger who is not going home at all. In his shirt pocket are two tickets. One of them has another man's name on it. He has told three people he is going and given three different answers, and not one of them is the answer. There is a fourth person he has not told at all. His name is Kabir, he was supposed to be in seat twelve, and what happened between them in June is the one thing this man will not say out loud, to anybody. So he goes alone. Thirty hours on a bus, a border post at Sunauli, and eleven days walking up to Annapurna Base Camp with a Gujarati couple who have been arguing since Ahmedabad, a Czech man who wants the distance noticed, a woman from Seoul who says forty words in four days and then walks at his shoulder for seven hours without mentioning it, and a guide of twenty-six who can wait out a silence better than anyone he has ever met. Somebody eventually asks him the right question. At midnight, at three thousand seven hundred metres, sitting on a stone step in the cold, he answers it. Seat Twelve is a short novel about the small thing you did by doing nothing, and about what a mountain will, and will not, take off your hands. Approximately 25,000 words. A novella.