“We ended up sharing a joint lying on the grass on the Tor, watching the sheep—harmless hillside grazers standing around waiting to be eaten or shorn. After a long quiet time, Ernie said, “I wonder if they feel sad when they’re separated from the flock and sent to slaughter? I wonder if the others notice?” His tone was light, but when I glanced over at him, he had pulled out a knife. A real knife, a switchblade.”