By high school commencement time, he no longer cared that his parents couldn't understand his passion for things Cretan.
College, then. Major in anthropology, minor in classics. Greek now, as well as Latin. Linguistics, too. Comparative cultures, technical photography, ethnological methods, archaeological methods, museum methods. Year after year, course after course.
And always, the same goal. Let others weigh and choose between Yucatan and Oceania, Murdering Beach and the Valley of the Kings. For him—ever; always—there was only Minos and Knossos and Bronze Age Crete.
Dion Burke, B.A., now, Dion Burke, M.A.
Then, the last step; the final goal: the onward, upward march to Doctor of Philosophy, Ph.D.
Or rather, not quite: not quite Ph.D.
And that was where The Director came in.
Burke cursed the day he'd met him.
A kindly soul, The Director, by his own statement, in spite of his scowl and beetling brows and jutting, heavy-boned, prognathous jaw. So fascinated by all things Minoan. So happy such a brilliant student had selected this most benign of all universities as the one at which to work for his doctorate.