She was shaking, her body understanding fully what her mind was trying to wrap itself around. That it wasn’t her age, it was her skin color. She hadn’t thought it possible, but for the first time she could feel the brown of her skin, as if brown was something less than and something dirty. Rage at this man boiled inside her, intense and sharp. She raged even more at the fact that someone could even for a second make her feel less than she was. Being brown, being Indian, was a part of her. She squared her shoulders and fought the hot tears that came to her eyes, clogging her throat with a hundred things she wanted to scream at that man. Not the very least of which was What are you teaching your son?

She pulled the plastic strip from her pocket. Her name and birthdate were typed on it, along with other numbers she still did not understand. She inhaled, as if she was infusing courage from the air. She squeezed the hospital band and placed it back in her pocket, where it had been for the past five months.

Mitch. Her first day. She had a class to teach. She fought back fiery tears and swallowed hard at the lump of anger. She plastered a smile on her face and readied herself for class.

She turned and clapped a short rhythm. She did it again, this time clearing her throat. Her gaze landed on Mitch, and he clapped back at her, copying her rhythm. Her heart swelled and she grinned, focusing on the smiles of the children, as she repeated the clapping pattern again. This time, a few children joined Mitch in answering her. She walked to the edge of the circle, continuing the game, until all the children had joined her.

“Good morning, class. Do you remember my name?” She paused, then allowed her heart to be light at the chorus of “Ms. Mehta” that came to her from her students.

“That’s right.” She floated her gaze around the circle at each child. “We’re going to have a wonderful year.”

That’s a promise.

CHAPTER TWO

DANIEL

DANIEL LAY DOWN in his room at base, shoes still on his feet. The helicopter was clean, equipment ready to go, all paperwork up-to-date. He’d earned himself a bit of a lie-down. He closed his eyes, and the image of Annika Mehta, twenty-seven, popped immediately into his brain. It had been five months since he’d cared for her in the ER, but every time he closed his eyes, there she was, in all her beauty and pain.