A chorus of male voices shouted behind her. She turned around. Several silhouettes headed in her direction. Poonam and Amir’s warnings returned to her at once. They were coming for her. She was finished. Just before they reached her, she moved out of their path, pressed her body against a wall, hoped the darkness would conceal her.

The men flew past. “Quickly, quickly,” one man yelled to the group. They didn’t even seem to notice her.

A parade of several women with hiked saris, jugs balancing on their heads swooped by. Water sloshed over the edges, drenched their hair and blouses. Deepa thought she recognized a few of their faces, but she couldn’t place them.

She crawled along the wall in the shadows when she heard it—loud crackling sounds. A putrid smell surged through her lungs. Diesel. She pinched her nose, continued to hobble along. Voices, sharp, shrill, burst through the air. The memory of Amir’s bloodied face surfaced. Something bad was happening.

She took a few tentative steps forward, peeked around the wall, blinked several times to bring what appeared before her into focus. Black, billowing clouds swirled in the night sky. A crowd congregated before a building. Women and men tossed buckets of water on flames bursting through doors and windows.

She had made a wrong turn somewhere. She reeled around. A small shop was shuttered. She walked toward it, spotted the awning. She knew this place. It was the chai shop near the clinic—the one her mother had brought her to last week on Deepa’s last day at the clinic.

She spun back around, rushed toward the burning building, elbowed her way through the bodies, surveyed the sweaty, soot-covered faces. Sparks, smoke exploded out of the roof, knocking down at least a few dozen people on the front line. It was their clinic.

“Papa-ji,” she screamed. “Papa-ji!?”

“Deepa,” a woman called.

She frantically searched for the voice. Zainab Ali, an old beloved patient of theirs was lying on the ground, her arms streaked with blood.

Deepa ran to her side. “What happened, Aunty? Are you hurt? Where’s my father?”

A man wearing a topi kneeled before Zaibab, lifted her head, brought water to her lips. She coughed a few times, sipped.

“Aunty, can you hear me?” Deepa took hold of her hand. “Where’s Papa-ji? Did he make it out?”

Zaibab swallowed. Her gaze found Deepa. “Your parents,” she moaned. “They may still be inside!”

Deepa dropped to her knees. “Papa-ji’s still inside? He didn’t get out?”

“A rock smashed through the window, hit your Papa-ji in the head. Others followed. Then there was fire. Your mother helped me outside first and went back in for your father. I’m so sorry, Deepa. I tried to help them!”

Deepa dropped her hand. No. No. Mummy-ji was safe at home. Papa-ji must have made it out. Zainab Aunty must be mistaken.