In the kitchen, a pot of rice bubbled on the burner. Rows of okra lined up in the pan. Bala hummed. Her knife pounded the cutting board. Deepa turned away, slipped on a pair of chappals, entered the patio.

Darkness cloaked the skies. A faint glow from a candle across the way served as the only light. She folded her poem in half, slid the money inside. She then parted the money plant’s leaves and laid the money and poem on the damp soil. She hoped Amir would come by later that night and find them both.

She then faced the wall, braced her hands on the top edge and heaved herself over. She would find Papa-ji and convince him not to send her away. It was the only way. Her soles slapped the dirt ground. Her eyes blinked in the darkness. She gathered her hair, shoved it inside the collar of her kameez, tied the dupatta under her neck.

She began sprinting in the direction of the clinic.

When she turned the corner, her chappal slid halfway down her foot. She tripped, careened forward. Her knees collided with the ground, skidded across sharp pebbles. Blood seeped through her thin cotton pants. Her palms burned. She pushed up to standing, hobbled a few steps, took off again.

In the darkness, her vision strained to translate the outlines of shapes into familiar markers. A tall square box with shutters—her mother’s favorite sari stall. A pyramid glowing in the moonlight—the Sai Baba temple. A thickly veined mass—the wide trunk of the old banyan tree. She hadn’t walked to the clinic in a while. It was further away than she remembered. A trip she thought would take her ten minutes on foot would take at least twice that long.

She panted. Her calves pinched with every step. Her dupatta slid off her head, flopped against her back. At the market, she slowed down and tried to catch her breath. She cut through its deserted aisles, between clumps of rickshaws. The drivers were curled up on the benches, snoring.

“Hey, sexy girl,” called one of them. He propped himself up. “Are you looking for me? Come,” he motioned. “We’ll have a good time.”

She darted around him, the border of her dupatta just barely out of the reach of his fingertips. She turned a corner and dashed down the length of the alley where she last saw Laila and Amir. In a few days, they would board a train north to Pakistan. If she couldn’t change her parents’ minds, she would board a train south to Bangalore. The distance between her and Amir would stretch the length of the subcontinent.

At the end of the alley, she smacked into a vegetable cart. It knocked the wind out of her. The vendor, who’d been dozing on the ground next to it, woke. “Watch where you’re going, filthy girl! Your father should beat you for being out so late by yourself!”

She bolted around, slowed when she reached the main road.