She helped him find a spot to sleep in, made him a small pillow out of her scarf. He waited for her to lie down herself so he could tuck his head in the crook of her shoulder. That’s how he slept every night at home, to the rise and fall of her chest, her breath sounds. It was the only way he knew how to sleep anywhere.

Simran leaned over, kissed his forehead. “Get some rest, Harju. Tomorrow, we’ll be at our new home with our mother’s family. How wonderful will that be?”

He woke to high-pitched screams, the sounds of snapping wood, what felt like an earthquake or a stampede. He bolted up, strained his eyes in the darkness, rubbed his face with the heels of his palms. He searched for movement or shapes in the tent, patted the ground next to him. “Bhenji?” It was cool, flat.

Another scream jolted him out of the fog of sleepiness. A faint, irregular light drew jagged shapes on the outside of the tent.

“Bhenji?” he whispered. “Papa-ji? Lacchman?”

A baby cried out. His spine pricked with fear. He rolled onto his hands and knees, crawled to the tent’s flap, slowly lifted it from the bottom.

Columns of smoke spun in the sky like tornados, extinguished the glow of the stars. A small boy huddled next to a tent. His cheeks were coated with tears. An older woman with outstretched arms, a white braid, called out a string of names. A man about Papa-ji’s age collapsed on the ground near Harjeet. He was covered in red. It looked as if someone had painted him with a dripping brush.

Harjeet rushed out, crouched near his head. It was the relief worker who had found them a place to sleep. “Uncle, what’s happening? Why are you hurt?”

He lifted his head off the ground, spit. “Run!” he said. “Run, my son, now!”

“But my bhenji is here, my Papa-ji and bhraji. I need to find them.”

The man’s eyes closed. His head fell back.

Harjeet scooted away, stood. He scanned the tents, the frantic, waving limbs. People flew past him. He tried to stop them, to ask if they knew where his family was, but they pushed him aside, yelled at him to hide. A chorus of dogs barked and howled.

“Simran!” Harjeet yelled. “Simran!”

Nearby, tents collapsed. Flames replaced their peaks.

Harjeet jumped inside their tent, scooted across the ground, tossed items in every direction until he found it, the bag with the silver candlesticks, his mother’s favorite possession, or so he’d been told. He tore back out, ran away from the camp, up the side of the dune. His feet sunk in the sand with each step. He held his hands straight out in front of him, waved them in the darkness to avoid colliding into trees or other people.

“Papa-ji! Where are you?” he called.