“We have been lucky. Some of our Hindu and Sikh friends have been helping us out. They’ve been bringing by food, checking on my father’s health. But others won’t even look at us anymore. They hang out on their stoops. When they see us coming, they hush, stare us down.”

It was a familiar scene. A river of apprehension flowed between homes not even one meter apart. Walls constructed with laundry hung out to dry. Windows half closed. Doors locked even during daylight hours. Detours taken around entire neighborhoods to avoid people of another faith. The families on her own street kept their distance, whispered, Deepa had heard, about her parents’ insistence on treating Muslim patients at the clinic.

The wind chimes jingled in the breeze. A stray dog howled. The first stars in the sky twinkled as the sunlight grew dimmer with each passing moment. Her parents would return from the clinic soon. She leaned over the wall, looked north, toward the park, listened for the honking of Sri’s rickshaw, the squeaking of his wheels.

She turned back to him. “Please, Amir, tell me what I can do to help. I’ll do anything.”

“There’s nothing either of us can do, Deepa, except to wait it out,” he said. “And not to succumb to the fear. That’s what they want.” He positioned his hands on the half-wall, jumped over it.

“Amir,” she whispered. “How will I know if you leave Delhi?”

He turned around. “I’ll tell you,” he said. He gestured to the plants. “Just look before you water.”

“Promise me you’ll be careful,” she said.

A chair scraped loudly against the floor inside.

“Quickly,” he said. “Back inside.”

She nodded, ran toward the door.

“Wait,” he said. He leaned back over the wall. “Please, come close.”

“What’s wrong?” she said, returning.

He looked deeply in her eyes, lifted her chin, brought his soft lips to hers.

Her eyes fluttered shut. Her lips were still, too stunned to move. So he did this for her, slowly parting them with his own. He then skimmed her cheek, her forehead, her ear. She brought her hand to his chest. His heart pounded into her palm like Morse code.

“Good night, Deepa.”

The breeze caused her to chill. She blinked her eyes open. His form faded to a silhouette and then diluted completely into the blackness of the landscape. She strained her eyes, willed his image to reappear before her, but he was gone.

She redrew his touch on her mouth, licked her lips to taste him again. She opened her hand. The swan. She’d almost forgotten about it. She wrapped it in her dupatta like a fragile package and went inside.

CHAPTER THREE