I tried my key. Heard the poink-poink of my car. Saw women caroming away from the main entrance as, through them, came the thumping feet of Minkus Jhaveri.

“That’s the fucking punk!” he shouted. He was perhaps eight feet to my right. My car had poink-poinked perhaps ten feet to my left. I felt the heat of a cocked weapon that has eyes only for you. My hands gave way. The lehenga landed at my feet. My arms rose, instinctively, white-flagging. I saw him in full profile: Minkus Jhaveri, buzzed hair and hefty belly, leading with the Smith & Wesson, hands clasped with purpose.

“I know your type,” I heard him say. “Some people have the balls to at least come armed. But the sneaky ones. That’s how fucking Indians do it. Little pussy pickpockets. Like beggars. Where’d you put it? Where’d you put it all?”

“I don’t,” I whispered, “know. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The gun shook—not because of fear, no, it was thrill. Sweat beads formed on his brow. Behind Minkus Jhaveri, women crouched behind their cars. I felt sure I could hear everyone breathing, shallowly and gaspingly.

And then, over Minkus’s shoulder, I saw orange-haired Linda approaching, her eyes narrowing. She knelt. She was lifting up her pant leg and loosening something around her ankle. I tried to mouth Don’t, but Minkus saw my lips move, and he jerked his head around, taking with him the gun. I heard the shot, but I dove for the lehenga, and didn’t see whose weapon fired. I collected the dress, bear-crawled to my Honda. I drove with my head low like I’d seen in movies, eyes beneath the steering wheel, not straightening till I had to look at the main road.

The convention center became a half-moon in my rearview. The sky blooming out in all directions was clear, but through it the smoke of an unlikely pistol still coiled. I was three miles, then five miles away, and my sister and Anita were back there, in the vicinity of the shots.

Q: If something happens?

A: Go straight to Sunnyvale. The faster the lemonade gets made, the sooner the evidence is gone.

My phone was vibrating atop the tulle, making a frizzy noise. I saw the waning power, 3 percent battery, as Prachi’s name dissipated on the screen. It began again, Prachi once more. The ringing abated. Then started again.