“Not to worry. I’ve got you.” Chandani wrapped her arms around Shan and lifted her. Shan would never have guessed she had such strength in her, that those little twig arms could lift anything heavier than a dictionary. She slowly guided Shan out of the front door, one foot in front another, an awkward dance in which Shan had to pause several times to breathe through the sharp tightening of her belly.

“My car’s in the shop, so I called a Lyft. You lay in the back. I’ll sit up front.” In the back seat, Chandani laid a flannel blanket across Shan’s body and tucked it around her.

“Let’s keep you good and warm,” she said. “We’ll be there soon.”

In the operating room, the anesthesiologist touched Shan’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” she said. “But we’re going to take good care of you. Now, count backwards from ten.”

Shan’s gaze shifted to the ceiling. The numbers appeared before her in the air. 10. 9. 8. She opened her mouth to speak them, but before she could, they shifted in form and floated away into something else, a memory of the very last time she was in the hospital.

“It hurts, Daddy,” she cries, clutching her belly in the hallway of the hospital. “I want Mommy. I want to go home.”

Her father rubs her belly in deep circles. “Be brave, my Shanti. It’s going to pass. The doctors will come give you medicines very soon. They will flush out the bad germs, okay? Please be brave, beta.”

She tries to focus on his face, his dark eyes. Every time she moans in pain, he winces. “I want to go to back to Seattle.”

The cot isn’t much wider than her body. Patients roam in thin cotton gowns. Some push metal rods holding plastic bags. An old man in a wheelchair is stranded in the middle of the hallway, hunched over.

Her father tussles her hair, clasps her hands. “I’m so sorry, Shanti. I’m so sorry this happened. Please forgive me. Please, please, forgive me. I promise I will take better care of you.”

When his eyes water, a few tears spill down his cheeks. He is a grown-up. Grown-ups aren’t supposed to cry. Mama never cries. Ever.

“I want to go home,” she says. “I hate you. I hate India.”

He turns away, presses a white folded handkerchief against his eyes, clears his throat. “They’re bringing the medicines. You’ll feel better very soon.”

A woman in a plain dress makes her way down the hallway. “Nurse?” he calls. She doesn’t look up, continues to scribble on her clipboard. “Excuse me, Nurse?” He has nearly jumped in front of her, blocking her ability to pass. “Please, I think my daughter is dehydrated. She can’t keep liquids down. She’s been having diarrhea and vomiting for over eight hours.”