The sound was too soft, though. It must have been a bird aiming for the stone bath, narrowly missing it, colliding with the half-wall instead. This was a common occurrence at their home. When they first installed the bath, the area outside of the garden became a burial ground. Every few weeks they’d find another carcass of a bird that misjudged the space between the half-wall and the ceiling. After the fourth death, her father considered getting rid of the birdbath altogether.

The surviving birds wised up, though. They seemed to have learned, at the expense of their predecessors, the precise angle of flight needed to partake in the water.

A second thump. She pushed out her chair. Was it another bird who saw the fate of his friend but couldn’t help itself?

“Bala, I’m going to go sit out in the garden.”

“Let me know when you’re hungry,” Bala replied. “You can eat first. Your parents will be very late tonight.”

Deepa opened the door. Pink and purple streaked the sky. Clouds layered like reams of cotton. The air smelled of freshly laundered clothes, hot oil from vendors selling chaat. On the street, men in trousers and stiff shirts swung briefcases. Stray dogs lapped at puddles. Chickens cornered an empty food stand, pecked at the crumbs on the ground.

She lit a fat, round candle. Diaphanous threads of cobwebs glinted against the stucco walls. The birdbath was a thick brown soup. She picked off a few leaves from its surface, tossed them over the half-wall. A white feather with gray specks stuck to the inside of the stone basin. She dried if off with her dupatta, set it on the stool. She’d save it for her collection.

She turned toward the plants.

An opaque stain lay at the base of the money plant pot. She stooped, touched it. Her fingertip turned red.

“Deepa.”

Amir’s face appeared just above the wall. It was streaked with blood. His right eye swelled partially shut. Dirt stained the front of his shirt.

“Oh!” Her hands flew to her mouth. Her clinic instincts kicked in. She began assessing his injuries, noting the depths of his cuts, the amount of lost blood. His wounds were ugly but seemed superficial. She was thankful for that.

“Climb over the wall,” she said.

He rolled over the ledge. His feet smacked the ground. He propped himself up. “Can you help me get cleaned up?” He showed her his bloody palms. “I don’t want my mother to see me like this.”

“I’ll be right back,” she said. “Don’t move.”

She tiptoed back inside, peered into the kitchen. Bala squatted on the floor over the burners, hummed to the songs playing from the transistor radio, throwing an occasional glare its way when static drowned out the voices.