In the bathroom, she squatted over the toilet, released a flood of urine. She pulled up her salwar, tied the cord. Over a ceramic bowl, she splashed water on her face, soaked her cheeks, her neck, drenched the front of her kameez, scrubbed her armpits with a washcloth. Water dribbled between her breasts, ran down in a stream to her navel. She cupped more water, tossed it back in her mouth, swished, spit. She popped open a tin, tapped baking soda onto her index finger, ran it over her teeth. Rinsed. Spit. Her face felt raw, tight. Burns and three days of tears had peeled off the outer layer of skin.

She unwound her knotted hair, raked her fingers through it, rebraided it.

The door to her parents’ bedroom was closed. No one had opened it since that night. She tiptoed toward it, as if they might be sleeping, leaned the side of her head against the door. The gold hoop in her earlobe scraped against its surface. She held her breath, strained to detect even the slightest evidence of life—proof that the past few days had all been a nightmare from which, any minute now, they would all wake.

A sharp knock startled her. Seconds later, another knock on the front door.

“I’m coming,” she called, her voice still hoarse and broken. She rushed down the hallway and spotted a few coins on the kitchen table. Bala must have forgotten the money. She always forgot the money.

Deepa unlatched the door, pulled it open. “Bala, it’s—”

Amir leaned against the doorframe, panting.

“I saw Bala leave,” he said. “May I come in?” He didn’t wait for her answer. He took hold of her face, brought his close.

She flinched. His touch felt like a slap.

“Oh, Deepa, I’m so sorry.” He touched the scars on her cheeks, examined her fingers. “God, you poor thing. How horrible!”

Her shoulders tightened. She clenched her jaw. When she inhaled, the rage that had been building inside her for the last three days erupted like a volcano. “You knew!” she shouted. She pounded her fist into his chest. “You knew what was going to happen to them!”

“Deepa, no!” He grabbed hold of her fists, kicked the door closed. “I promise, Deepa, I didn’t know anything more than what I told you. I wish I had done something more … to help you convince your parents to leave. But you have to believe me. I didn’t know there would be an attack on the clinic!”

She broke free, collapsed to the floor. “I want to die. I want to die!” She clutched her stomach. “This hurts so badly, Amir. Oh, God, it hurts. I can’t live without them! I don’t want to live!”

She brought her forehead to the floor. Every cell in her body ached. Every breath felt as if it was ripping through her lungs. Every muscle and ligament knotted in a rope.