Her parents sit on the couch in a half-comatose state to receive visitors, the way unconscious patients might from hospital beds. Kavita notices that they sit closer together than they would have in the absence of company.

The afternoon trudges on. She and Nirav tend to the guests. They weave in and out of conversations, freshen cups of tea, clear plates, offer consolation. Whenever someone asks how she’s doing, she replies, “Fine, thank you,” when all she wants to do is howl and howl.

Each time she recites the fiction about the car accident, she feels a bit thinner, as though deception is slowly corroding her. She finds herself having to answer an assault of questions she hasn’t prepared for. Where did it happen? Was the other driver at fault? Did the other driver survive? Was alcohol involved? Were they thinking of pressing charges? Why wasn’t there an obituary in the paper? A report on the news?

Somehow she fumbles through with short replies. It happened on his way to work. He collided with oncoming traffic while taking a left-hand turn. The other driver suffered minor injuries. Sunil died in the ambulance on the way to hospital. No, they weren’t pressing charges. Everything happened so fast, they didn’t think of an obituary.

“How tragic,” says her neighbour, Janet. She is a short woman with a figure like a potbellied stove, a globe of permed chestnut locks, and pale grey eyes. She wears black, and in her hand, clutches a silver rosary. When they were younger, Janet occasionally babysat Sunil and Kavita after school. “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away,” she proclaims, as she rubs her rosary beads.

Kavita strains for calm. She knows a sermon is on its way. Back when Janet used to babysit them, she once made Kavita stand in the corner of her living room with her nose to the wall for ten minutes for the highly punishable offense of muttering “Oh my God.”

“He always takes the good ones young,” Janet continues. “And who are we to question? After all, everything happens for a reason. And He never gives us more than we can handle. I know you miss your brother, dear, but don’t weep for him. He’s in a better place now.”

Janet grabs Kavita’s hand, closes her eyes, and mouths a soundless prayer. As Kavita watches the woman’s lips move, ecstatic with liturgy, fibrillations flick under her skin in waves, hot and fizzy. Janet finishes with an audible “Amen,” then kisses her rosary and opens her eyes, beaming.

“Thank you,” says Kavita, flat on the outside, seething underneath. Pulling her hand away, she excuses herself.