Karak did not ask the question—how did these injuries happen—and Ram did not answer it. He saw Jivan observing him silently.

“How many days since you were hurt?” the doctor asked.

Karak translated, but Ram understood the question well enough.

“Pain is less,” Ram whispered, wrapping his tongue around the English words. There were questions he did not want to answer, for which he could feel only shame. Jivan Singh and the doctor exchanged a glance.

“It’s the local anesthetic,” the doctor said. “It will wear off. It may hurt more in coming days.”

Karak translated this too.

Doc Paulson stepped forward. “May I ask how you came to be injured?” Later, when Ram knew the Valley more, he would learn the man was a friend of the sheriff’s, helping him keep the peace, warning him if visitors had seen trouble, as if it were his duty to know and report.

Ram closed his eyes, shook his head in the slightest motion.

“He doesn’t understand me,” Doc Paulson said.

“Do you want to tell?” Jivan Singh said to Ram in Punjabi.

Ram felt a surge of gratitude. He looked down, inspected the cloth of his bedsheet. “I was struck by a carriage in Los Angeles, before I boarded the train.” He felt Karak’s intake of breath. Ram gazed at Jivan Singh.

“Shall I tell him that?” Jivan asked. Ram nodded yes. Jivan Singh translated Ram’s answer into English. Ram had feared missing his train, Jivan added, so did not wait to see a doctor in the city.

Doc Paulson nodded, but he looked at Ram for a moment too long.

“We brought a lunch for him, Doc,” Jivan said quickly.

The doctor allowed that Ram could eat it there before they left, and they should take their time, because it was still too hot to hurry.

“Thank you,” Jivan said. They shook hands. Jivan smiled at him, and the doctor smiled back.

“What will be the cost for this?” Ram asked Karak after the Anglo left, but Jivan interjected, “I’ve known the doctor for eight years. He’s grazed his cattle on our field.” Ram was surprised by the generosity. He had been surprised by the handshake too.

The Punjabis propped Ram up with pillows. Amarjeet brought out a brass tiffin, its handle inscribed with the letters BOMBAY BRASS AND IRON WORKS, and unlatched its clasp. Inside were chole, paneer, lime pickle, and roti. The aroma of cumin and cilantro made Ram’s stomach clench. “My wife is a good cook,” Jivan said. “Even her simple meals are delicious.” Ram tore the roti and ate in large bites, gulping water, while the others stood by his bed.

But the question lingered.

“How did this happen to you, bhai?” Karak asked.

“Did no one help after the carriage hit?” Amarjeet asked, looking at Karak.

Karak smiled a ghost of a smile, exchanged a glance with Jivan.