He tripped, crashed to the ground. The bag flew out of his hands, thudded on the other side of a large boulder. He crawled toward it, bumped against something small, soft. A doll. Its tiny hand bunched into a fist. It was spongy and warm, wet. The fingers gradually fell open, like the petals of a flower.

He gasped, recoiled.

The shouts grew louder. They were getting closer. He grabbed the bag, took off.

At the top of a hill, he looked down below. Fires lit the camp. Backs arched, voices raised, fists knocked down those attempting to flee. Some of the residents held their prayerful hands up in surrender, pled for mercy. Others were dragged by their hair along the ground, kicking and screaming. Dozens of men swung bats and wielded swords. They stormed through the makeshift city, deflated the remaining tents, hunting down, Harjeet imagined, more victims. One after another, weapons pummelled heads, torsos, and limbs. The attackers were like an army of ants smothering a piece of food. They mowed down everything and everyone they came across.

Harjeet turned around, crawled behind a tree, clutched his sister’s bag. His family would find him. They were looking for him right now. He would wait here. He stayed awake for as long as he could, until the wails from the camp grew softer and the smoke faded in the sky. When the only sound left was the panting of his own breath, he gave in to the weight of his eyelids.

He woke to a violent shaking, a dawning light. He blinked his eyes at the familiar form in front of him, the broad shoulders of his brother. Lacchman’s clothes were torn. His eyes were bloodshot, wide, like a mad dog. He thrust Harjeet to his chest, sobbed in his hair.

Harjeet pushed off his brother. “Where were you, bhraji? Where are Papa-ji and bhenji?”

Lacchman’s face froze. He turned away, ran his hand over it. “Papa-ji was hurt very badly. Someone is taking care of him now.”

“Is Simran with him?”

Lacchman squeezed his eyes tight, flung his arms around his brother. “Oh, Harju.”

“Tell me where she is,” Harjeet said flatly. “I have the bag with the candlesticks. See?” He opened it, took one out. “She will be so proud I saved them.”

Lacchman collapsed on the ground. Tears streaked his dirt-stained face. He buried it in Harjeet’s shoulder, choked on his own sobs.

“Lacchman, are you hurt?” Harjeet asked. “Where does it hurt?”

Lacchman touched Harjeet’s cheek. “Harjeet, Simran, your bhenji … she died, Harjeet. She didn’t survive the raid.”

Lacchman made no sense. Bhenji wasn’t in the tent during the attack. She had gone somewhere, escaped. She might be at their home in Rawalpindi right now, waiting for them to find their way back. “No, Lacchman. That’s not true. She is waiting for us. We must go find her.”