Her shoulders sagged. “I dreamed. And dreamed. And dreamed some more.”

Until then, Venkat hadn’t admitted to himself he’d been hoping it was all a fluke. Some type of monumental misunderstanding. “Do you want to tell me about it?” he asked. “Maybe it’ll help.”

“No.” Her voice grew thick, and her face crumpled like she might cry. “I mean, maybe. I don’t know.”

Dread ate into him, caustic and awful. He’d seen those same tormented features only hours before, swimming through his nightmares—not only Tanvi’s face, but Jai’s, too, smeared with a film of blood and tears.

The ghost images returned now, just as injurious and impossible to escape. Both Tanvi and Jai had accused him of forsaking them, and then, eight years old again, he’d watched as the collapsing theater crushed his family over and over, leaving only a stew of red pulp. Every shard of bone, every scream had inserted itself into his skin as forcefully as Mummy’s and Papa’s accusations had insinuated themselves into his soul. It was all his fault. All of it.

Venkat scrambled for the book he’d grabbed from his bedside table, a purple volume with garlanded nagas embossed on the cover. He’d planned to give it to Tanvi later, after he’d shown her what she needed to see, but the dream was poisoning him all over again. “Can I read you a story?”

She sat up, her sorrow sharpening into suspicion. “Why?”

He flashed his cheeriest smile. “I’ve had this book since I got here, almost. There’s a story in it I used to read over and over when I was lonely. I thought you might like it, too.”

“I’m not lonely.”

“No, but I bet you miss harvesting, and a dream’s a type of story, right?”

Tanvi stared at the book. “Can you help me?”

Could he? He didn’t even really understand what was happening to her.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But I’m going to try.”

Tanvi nodded, then rested her chin on her knees. “You can tell me the story,” she said. “I used to really like books. I think.” She winced. “It hurts to remember.”

Venkat heard the part she left unspoken. Pain aside, she shouldn’t be remembering at all.

He settled into his seat and began reading aloud, occasionally adjusting his angle so Tanvi could see the illustrations, too. Although Venkat knew the story of how Princess Uloopi, a lonely widow, became enamored of wandering Prince Arjun so well he could recite it by heart, it still never failed to draw him in as deeply as the first time he’d heard it at his grandmother’s knee.

He’d needed this distraction, but now he wanted to give Tanvi the same comfort that memory gave him.