Seeing that Dr. Nataraj had turned away and was speaking to Arun in soft tones, I flicked a rude gesture at Victor, and he widened his eyes in pretend shock, laughing under his breath.

Lingyi arched one eyebrow, lips pursing, a not-so-subtle reprimand for me to behave; I grinned charmingly and shut the door behind me. Iris stood behind it, and I jumped. “Gods, Iris!” I said.

“Hey, Zhou.” She was dressed in black, like always, and tucked the syringe she held casually between her fingertips back into some hidden pocket at her thigh. A quick stab in the arm with the sleep spell, and I would have dropped within seconds.

“Hey,” I said back. She was already slinking away from me, falling carelessly into the other armchair, throwing her legs over its arm, and settling in.

“I’m sorry I’m late.” I could see again the resemblance between Dr. Nataraj and Arun—both had dark brown eyes with high cheekbones and strong chins. But Dr. Nataraj’s black wavy hair was threaded with gray.

She shifted over on the large sofa and smiled at me, patting the place beside her. “Only a few minutes, Zhou. We haven’t started yet.”

I slipped over to sit between her and Lingyi. Even Dr. Nataraj referred to me by my family name alone. I never shared my given name, and my friends never asked. After years on the streets on my own, it afforded me the anonymity I wanted. Zhou was a common enough surname.

Dr. Nataraj pushed a white plate toward me, stacked with perfectly triangular samosas, fried to a beautiful golden hue. “I made your favorite, Zhou. Take some.” She flashed her warm smile.

“Thanks, Auntie.” We all called Arun’s mom “auntie” because she insisted upon it. None of us had a mother figure in our lives to speak of, and she’d made sure to welcome us into her home and heart from the start. For over three years she’d played the role of listener and advice giver, and was simply there to give hugs when any of us needed it. The dinners she invited us to in her and Arun’s home were the only home-cooked meals we had. But it wasn’t the delicious saag paneer or aloo gobi she made that drew us the most, it was the feeling of comfort and belonging she offered each of us.

My stomach was already growling as I heaped three still-warm samosas onto a paper plate, wolfing two large bites down before saying, “Your samosas are the best.” They really were.

She angled her chin a fraction, her gold pendant earrings swaying, and replied in a conspiratorial tone, “I’ve wrapped up a few for you to take home.”