
The power failed exactly as Ramesh had warned.
At eight-fifteen the ceiling fan in Priya’s room slowed, groaned, and stopped. The single bulb above her door flickered once and died. Instantly the thick desert heat rushed in, heavy and intimate, wrapping itself around her body like warm hands. She sat up on the charpoy in the dark, already damp between her breasts and at the small of her back. The thin cotton night-dress clung to her skin.






















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