He sat up, suddenly enraged, and pulled on his clothes. “Stop. What you believe or not means nothing! I’ll kill you!” She pulled up the sheets to cover herself, her eyes wide in fright.

He dressed quickly and walked out into the streets of Fredonia. He felt dizzy. Had he meant those words? He would kill her? At home he had whispered to Padma in their bed—“Die!” as a playful command against fate, as a way to ward off the tragic. No, he could not harm Adela, ever. He remembered the shock on her face, the quickening of her breath. After years, she had made him feel light again. He did not ever want her to die.

It was early yet; people were still emerging from church. The day of the attack in Hambelton had been a Sunday too. People had gone to church then, had prayed too. He and Pala had seen them.

Perhaps Adela knew that he had arrived in the Valley injured and desperate. Perhaps that information had been conveyed between Jivan and Karak, from Karak to Rosa to Adela. But he did not want her to know why.

He promised himself he wouldn’t tell her. Surging clouds covered an angry sun. Silent lightning pierced the gray. He had seen this lightning before. It did not have to mean rain. Her bewildered face flashed in front of his eyes. He had walked more than a mile around the town’s simple streets and returned to the dressmaker’s shop. The Presbyterian church sat around the corner. He would not be noticed going back inside the shop. Could he tell without floundering? Could he say what happened?

She was sitting on the blanket where they had made love, dressed now, leaning against an old sewing machine, her hands playing with its foot pedal, which rested on her lap. When he entered, her face was searching, expectant, but tender.

The rain came. A torrent of water at first, then a gentle sprinkle. Was that why he told her, he wondered later? The rain drumming against the roof like a mother’s song? The room felt different when it did not need to protect against dust and wind and sky.

Afterward there were crickets that covered the dirt paths and patios and wagons and motorcars, dark things that crawled out of the fertile earth. Then came the birds to devour them, dropping from the sky without warning. But before those unreal events had occurred, he had already told her, lying in the damp air of the fabric room.