She looked around the room. The fluorescent lighting made a quiet whirring sound: like a mosquito. Maybe it was a mosquito, or ten. It was the right season for mosquitoes. In the north it was perpetually the right season for mosquitoes.

She closed her eyes and started to run through her tropical infectious diseases: dengue, malaria, amoebic dysentery, and filariasis. She went on, first repeating their names, then going back to list the symptoms and treatment protocols for each. She knew her diseases because she had wanted to impress Rajan. He knew infection the way Nala knew gossip.

Smallpox, chickenpox, measles, whooping cough, diphtheria, helminthiasis, leprosy and scabies. Dhara went back to the beginning and ordered them alphabetically. Then she went back to the beginning again and ordered them by region of prevalence. Priya had admired her knowledge. She had admired Priya too. Priya was an excellent doctor. She never believed in herself enough, but she was an excellent doctor. Dhara couldn’t remember if she had ever told her that. Priya was an excellent sister and doctor.

Dhara tried not to cry. A torn cushion had been incongruously placed on the cold metal of her chair. It smelled like fear. She wondered how many others had sat on that chair, sweating and urinating. It was comforting in a way to know that she was not the only one.

Amoebic dysentery, chickenpox, dengue, diphtheria, filariasis, helminths, leprosy, leptospirosis, malaria, measles, scabies, Smallpox and whooping cough. There, she re-ordered it alphabetically again.

Now backwards: whooping co—

The door opened and the soldier returned with someone else. The new man stood in the corner, behind her where she couldn’t see him. She could only hear and feel him. She was too afraid to look around. Her back was stiff from sitting in the chair for so long; she couldn’t have turned if she wanted to. She couldn’t turn and she couldn’t run.

She took a deep breath. She wouldn’t cry.

‘Let’s try again. Why were you at Tellippalai? We know some of the militants are from that village—you’re working for them, aren’t you?’ he asked.

‘I’m in charge of the clinic there; it’s my father’s village. I promise …’ she closed her eyes and braced herself for the slap. Only this time it was a fist in the stomach, not a slap on the face. She doubled over and focused on her diseases. She couldn’t breathe, but her vagus would relax in a moment and there was enough oxygen in her lungs to keep her alive. There was enough oxygen in her blood stream to feed her brain for another 2.9 minutes.