As her foot came down, Jennifer realized belatedly she had to direct it onto one of two bricks. The same with the other foot. She had inadvertently stepped into a makeshift toilet. Balancing herself, she pulled the curtain back into place. Next she managed to turn herself around without stepping off the bricks. The facility was just a hole, two bricks, and a faucet.

The argument between the owner and the interlopers was still going on out in the narrow store. Jennifer assumed the language was Hindi. She tried not to breathe through her nose. The smell was repulsive.

Now that she was stationary, Jennifer shivered. She looked at her hands and then tentatively smelled. It didn’t smell good, whatever it was that she’d landed in when she’d pitched out of the tricycle. At least it wasn’t feces. She looked down at the faucet, shrugged, and bent down to rinse off her hands. At that point it sounded as if a new person had gotten into the shop and was arguing with the owner. This time it was in English. But the individual said little. It was mostly the owner carrying on very angrily. Then there was a crash, and the pigs began squealing and the lamb bleating.

Worrying about what was happening, Jennifer stood up, turned, and listened. It sounded like the owner was trying to get up. Just when Jennifer had generated the courage to peek around the curtain, it was rudely whipped to the side, causing her to cry out, as did the person doing the whipping.

It was Neil McCulgan.

“God, you scared me half to death,” Neil complained with a hand pressed to his chest.

“You?” Jennifer complained with equal vehemence. “What about me? And what in God’s name are you doing here?”

“There’ll be time to explain,” Neil said. He extended a hand for Jennifer to step off the bricks. Behind him, the owner was busy trying to extricate himself from a stack of the tiny chicken cages where he’d presumably been pushed. Several of the cages had broken, and the released chickens were nervously pacing around the immediate area.

She shook her head and raised her hands as a warning. “You don’t want to touch me. I was tossed out of a tricycle into some—”

“I know. I saw.”

“You did?” Jennifer stepped off the bricks. She briefly glanced at the half-dozen Indians she’d followed into the shop.

“I most certainly did.”

“I want you Americans out of here,” yelled the owner, after catching the chickens and cramming the poor birds into occupied cages. “I want everyone out of here!”

“Let’s go!” Neil said, keeping himself between the owner and Jennifer. “There’s nothing to be running from.”