Presently you rouse yourself. You press the buzzer and speak into what looks like the intercom. Still no response. You’re more irritated than alarmed—Seema has locked herself in her room and perhaps can’t hear the buzzer. You know none of the neighbors; you gather your courage and buzz the floors below and above. A man responds to your second attempt. He grunts at your flurried explanation of being locked out and buzzes you in.

At least the apartment is open. The smell of biryani overwhelms you as soon as you enter. You look into the kitchen: dishes and plates as they were left, remains of an unfinished dinner. You cannot bear to see these signs of a ruined evening. You had such hopes.

You clear the table, scrape the food off the plates into the garbage. As for the dishes and the biryani—will anyone have the desire any longer to eat them? Still, you can’t throw them away. You make space for them in the fridge.

Only then do you knock on Seema’s bedroom door. First timidly, then peremptorily. You rattle the doorknob, you push against the door. It won’t budge, and there’s no reaction from inside.

Now you’re frantic: you call out her name, hysterically almost, a heavy hand squeezing your heart.

What are you to do? You are alone, thousands of miles from anything you’re familiar with, with no idea how the world works here, no knowledge of its rules and protocols. Whom to call?

Tahera may be at the airport already, and it would take her a while to get back, and—yes, Fiaz, but alas, you don’t have Fiaz’s number. You do have Bill’s number though.

Your hand trembles as you fumble for it. You pray that he will pick up, that he will listen to you, despite what happened yesterday. Was it only yesterday? The first ring, then the second, then the third cut short as Bill answers, and before you hear his voice—

“Son, son,” you sob in Urdu, because for what you have to say, and even for what you can’t find the words to say, it’s the only language that moves your tongue at this moment. But, of course, he doesn’t understand you. You panic that he may hang up, you force your tongue slowly around words that feel foreign to it now, you force yourself to give voice to your fears clearly and specifically.

Yes, Bill says, yes, he will be over, they should call 911, call an ambulance, he’ll call them, what’s the address again, is there anyone else in the building to help, he’ll be over, don’t worry, it will be all right, it will be all right, it will be all right.

You want to believe him.