Harjeet’s eyes popped open. He turned and buried his face in his sister’s armpit to block out the bright afternoon sun shining through the window. Simran flung her arm around him and they found a conjoined position against the bench seat. The hum of the train’s engine began to lull him to sleep again, but this time his mind refused to succumb to slumber. It awoke fully, and when it did, so did the numbers. They leapt before him, spun like spokes on a wheel, swirled around him in clouds. All he had to do was reach to pluck them out.

The first few years of his life, he didn’t speak. Shortly after his fourth birthday, when Papa-ji had finally become alarmed, he said, “You’re four years old, Harjeet. You need to be talking.” It was only then that Harjeet decided to open his mouth. “No Papa-ji, I’m four years, three weeks, and two days. 1,483 days, total.”

He’d been talking ever since. At seven years old, he knew several thousand words. He wanted to know infinity words, though this was impossible according to Simran. Infinity wasn’t an end point or a destination. It could never be quantified. It would always remain just beyond his reach.

Their train journey was quantifiable, though. It was two hundred seventy-six kilometers from their home in Rawalpindi to the train’s next stop in Attari, just inside the new Indian border. Two hundred seventy-six kilometers equaled 276,000 meters. With another 28,000 meters from Attari to Amritsar, they would have traveled a total of 304,000 meters by their journey’s end. The numbers floated around until he could picture them, the multiplication and addition symbols, the numbers encircling and swelling.

They began this morning well before dawn, carrying only a few small bags. “You’ll have everything you need at Aunty’s house, Harjeet. Irfan Uncle has promised to watch over the house for us and send some of our belongings later.” Aside from food and water, they packed their gold, Mummy-ji’s wedding jewelry, which would someday become Simran’s wedding jewelry, and Mummy-ji’s silver candlesticks. They’d never taken such things on other holidays. Those items had always remained behind, locked away safely. But this holiday, Papa-ji had said, was not like other holidays.

Harjeet wanted to ask why but he didn’t want to be any more of a nuisance. Three days earlier, when Papa-ji woke them to begin the trip, Harjeet’s body was burning up. He had chills and fever, couldn’t keep food or fluids down. Papa-ji had to bribe the sales ticket agent at the station to switch their passage to today.

Simran rubbed her eyes. “Harju,” she said. “Have we reached Attari? We should be there soon, yes?”

“Must be, bhenji.”