“It’s too dangerous for you to stay now,” he said, with more conviction. “We have to take you away as soon as possible. The police don’t even know who did it. What if it was Hari and his gundas? They know where you live, Deepa.” His arm flinched, knocked over the cup. Water cascaded over the table. He ignored it, refused to right the cup. “I’m sorry, Deepa. Your father was my brother. India was my home too.”

It was the most he’d said since his arrival.

He collapsed over the table, braced his head in his hands. The spill soaked the sleeves of his pale blue shirt, spread like a dark stain. Nora grabbed a towel, cleaned what she could. He refused to move. She could only work around him.

He began crying again. It vibrated through his body.

Nora laid her hand on her husband’s head, stroked his hair, hushed him. All she could do was hush.

Later in the garden, Deepa faced a row of plants succumbing to neglect. The soil was dried and cracked, like faults in the earth. Her father had entrusted her to the care and maintenance of his plants. She had failed him. She squatted, pressed her fingers in the dirt of one pot, just in case it could be salvaged. It had hardened like clay.

Mumbled voices came from inside the flat. When the door swung open, Madam Grover greeted her with a hearty hug. “Oh, Deepa. Sweet Deepa.”

She threw her arms around her teacher. “I received your lovely note, Madam Grover. Thank you for sending it. And I’m sorry I turned you away the other day. I just … I wasn’t ready to see anyone yet. I wanted to be alone.”

“My heart breaks for you,” Madam Grover said. Her eyes were swollen and red, as if they’d already dispensed of every last tear. “Bala told me you needed to see me. I got away as soon as I could.”

Deepa peeked in the living room. Poonam scrubbed the floor while Bala stood over her, recounting the gossip from the last few days. Deepa was thankful Poonam had shown up at all. She had not wanted to clean and pack for a family with such bad luck, but Deepa had promised Poonam most of their furniture in exchange for her help.

Deepa shut the door, led her teacher to two wooden stools on the patio. The street was crowded with masses of people walking, sitting, standing. Autos and bike rickshaws attempted to maneuver between them. Their honks and bells would help to mask Deepa’s voice. She slid her hand into her pocket, pulled out a piece of paper.