He had just over two weeks left on the kibbutz, one of which he had to work. He'd wait until the following week before setting foot in the bakery. In the meantime he let the days pass slowly, not doing much with himself apart from packing a small parcel with some clothes and tapes that he knew he'd have trouble fitting into his rucksack with all the rest of his belongings.
He felt the same feelings that had come over him the last time he'd left the kibbutz, back in August the previous year. He closed in on himself. He hardly went up to the dining room in the evenings to eat dinner, preferring to bring vegetables back to his room where, whilst watching the television, he'd prepare something himself.

The week passed quietly which he was glad for. He wanted to leave the kibbutz quietly but knew that his friends would make some kind of fuss over him. He didn't enjoy getting attention like that; didn't like being the centre of things. He had the same feelings about birthdays too; he preferred that people didn't know its date. He wouldn't get upset if people forgot and didn't send cards. To him it was just another day. It was always others who tried to make it into something special for him.