Tying the end of her saree around her waist, the young woman began her descent into the well. No harness, no safety gear. Her dirt-caked fingers gripped the top edge of the stone enclosure for just a moment, before she let go.

  My heart lurched.

  But the women gathered around the well didn’t react. Most had their faces veiled with the ends of their sarees, and they carried on with their conversations and arguments as if this was routine. A few leaned over the edge, calling down to the girl to hurry up – it was getting late.

  I stood at a distance with Aranyak, hidden behind a small cluster of trees. We were close enough to see everything clearly, but far enough that the women hadn’t noticed us yet.

  Aranyak had a gun hidden under his loose clothing, but at least he wasn’t pressing the muzzle into my back. He seemed to have fewer trust issues than his comrades. Small mercies.

  That said, he had fastened a strange-looking device, wires jutting out, to my ankle. It looked like something cobbled together by a gang of middle-schoolers. He didn’t bother explaining what its purpose was, but I figured it had to be a makeshift tracker. Or at least, I hoped so. The alternatives were far scarier.

  A few minutes later, a large tin pot emerged from the mouth of the well. One of the women nearby grabbed it and set it carefully down. Another pot followed soon after, then a bucket.

  Until finally, the young woman who’d descended into the well hauled herself out, grimy fingers gripping the top of the rough stone steening for leverage. When she was halfway up, some of the other women grabbed her shoulders and pulled her the rest of the way out.

  As soon as her feet hit the ground, she unwound the loose end of the saree from her waist, pulling it over her head to veil her face. Then, she balanced both pots on her head, picked up the bucket with one hand, and walked away.

  Moments later, another woman climbed onto the narrow stone steening and began her precarious descent into the well – like a participant in some surreal, high-stakes adventure sport. Only without a harness or any kind of safety gear.

  “There’s not enough water left in the well,” Aranyak murmured. “For them to drop their buckets in. This is the only way they can get relatively clean drinking water. Else they’d have to walk two villages over. That’s three extra hours on foot, round trip.”

  Considering it’d taken us over an hour just to walk here from the workshop, I could see why they’d choose to risk life and limb climbing into wells, instead.

  Then again, I doubted many of them had to make the trek after being beaten black and blue the night before. But what did I know? All I could say for sure was that every inch of me pulsed with agony, some spots worse than others. And all this hiking through rough, semi-forested terrain had only aggravated the numerous cuts and bruises that already covered me.

  Yet, despite the misery, this trek had confirmed that I hadn’t broken any bones. And given the horrible luck I’d had these last few days? This felt like the universe tossing me a (slightly leaky) life raft.

  That flicker of gratitude evaporated the moment Aranyak seized my elbow and dragged me out of our hiding place behind the trees.

  Raising a hand, he called out to the women.

  My pulse spiked. To say I wasn’t ready for this confrontation would be an understatement.

  The women, however, didn’t seem alarmed to see us. A few of the older ones lifted their veils and smiled warmly at us, while some others simply waved and went back to their work.

  Not the reaction I’d been anticipating.

  Aranyak strolled up to the well and offered a hand to the woman clambering out. She took it without hesitation, and he pulled her out as if she weighed no more than the little goat we’d encountered earlier that morning.

  She smiled, exchanged a few quick words with him, then balanced two full pots on her head, grabbed her bucket, and walked off – just like the woman before her.

  “Want me to go down for you?” he asked the one next in line, who looked to be in her forties.

  She laughed, shaking her head. “I’d never hear the end of it if my husband learned I let you fetch water for me.”

  “Your husband is a mule,” Aranyak assured her.

  The two kept talking, but I could only follow about seventy percent of the conversation. Aranyak’s side, mostly. The woman’s voice was rough, her accent rural. Slightly different from the version of Zilani spoken in Zhyn, which was the dialect I was familiar with.

  Meanwhile, I could feel several of the other women watching me, their gazes cautious, curious. But every time I turned to meet their eyes, they quickly looked away.

  I stayed silent, rooted in place, resisting the urge to hide behind Aranyak’s broader frame.

  It wasn’t often I was shy around women. But this situation had me completely out of my depth. I’d no idea how to begin to interact with them. Not least because they’d probably understand my Zilani less than I understood theirs. I was out of practice, although these last twenty-four hours had been quite the crash course.

  Did they know who I was? Why I was here? Had word already spread through the village, since last night?

  The middle-aged woman eventually tucked the end of her saree into her waist, stepped up onto the narrow stone edge, and began her descent into the well.

  I inched forward, eager to see how she’d make her way down the steep stone surface. But Aranyak had other ideas.

  Not far from the well was a large boulder jutting out of the ground. He made his way toward it, dragging me along behind him.

  Perched on the boulder was an old woman. Her hair was white as snow, her face etched with deep wrinkles.

  He crouched in the grass in front of her, leaving me standing stiffly by his side. Unsure of what to do with myself.

  The old woman peered at him with a wide, gap-toothed grin. “Come here to chat up the girls, have you?” she rasped.

  “Only the best girl,” he said. “What’re you doing here so early? Not planning to climb into the well, I hope.”

  Her bony little body quivered with laughter. “I might. But only if you’ll climb in with me.”

  I strained my ears to keep up with the unfamiliar cadence of her speech.

  “At this age,” he sighed, shaking his head. “You’re inciting young men to jump into wells after you. Is this appropriate?”

  Instead of responding, she looked up at me. “He’d do well enough.” She pointed to me. “If you’re still hung up on that wife of yours.”

  “The poor city boy won’t survive you, auntie,” Aranyak gasped. “And none of us will survive if he doesn’t, I can tell you that much.”

  She narrowed her eyes, studying me from head to toe.

  My heart pounded, breath caught in my chest. I stayed perfectly still.

  “Beautiful boy,” she murmured at long last. “What’s your name?”

  I could’ve wept with relief. She hadn’t recognized me.

  Not that it’d make sense for her to, after all these years. The logical part of me knew that.

  But still, another part of me had been afraid.

  After all, my face had been widely known – and widely despised – in Zilan, eighteen years ago.

  I hardly resembled the child I’d been, back then. My face held little trace of him. And most Zilanis wouldn’t make the connection, unless someone pointed it out to them.

  When I didn’t answer, she turned back to Aranyak. “He a friend of yours? Doesn’t he speak our language? And what’s happened to that pretty face?”

  Aranyak arched an eyebrow, but miraculously, didn’t stir up more trouble for me. “You could say he’s a friend,” he muttered. “Had an accident, poor thing. Tripped over his own shoelaces. He’s staying at the shop a few days, to recover.”

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  She clicked her tongue sympathetically. “Well, you should take him to the clinic. That’s where we’re headed. My daughter-in-law will take me, after she’s done fetching the water.”

  “What for?” he asked. “You look as healthy as an ox, to me.”

  She sniffed. “And they wonder why you couldn’t keep a wife.”

  “What?” he cried, indignant. “I could keep ten wives, if I wanted to. It’s just Zilan is my first love. I’m devoted to her – heart and soul. And for the record,” he added. “Oxen are magnificent animals. You should be flattered.”

  In the end, her daughter-in-law was spared the trouble of accompanying her to the clinic, as Aranyak offered to do it himself.

  “I’m taking my friend there, anyway,” he told the younger woman, whose wavy black hair nearly reached her thighs. “He’s injured himself, as you can see. Tripped on his own shoelaces,” he added with a dramatic shake of the head, warming to the story. “We’ll just take auntie along with us. It’ll be no trouble at all. You head back home, get some rest. We don’t want that sprained ankle acting up again.”

  He took his leave of the women – collecting several lunch invitations in the process – and we set off for the clinic. Thankfully, with the old woman in tow, he didn’t insist on walking the whole way.

  He made a call, and a few minutes later, a teenage boy pulled up in a rickshaw. The three of us climbed aboard, and off we went. Bouncing down the unpaved dirt road as the old woman chattered a mile a minute.

  By now, the streets were buzzing with activity. Shops lined the roadsides, selling everything from clothes and kitchenware to motorbikes and farm equipment.

  When the clinic finally came into view, it was the old woman who pointed it out to me, her voice brimming with pride.

  It was an ordinary two-story building, blue and white in color. Not even a signboard out front. If she hadn’t told me it was a medical facility, I’d never have guessed.

  What did stand out was the crowd. A steady stream of people flowed in and out of the front gateway. Even the lone tea stall beside the building was packed – overflow from the clinic.

  Our teenage driver rolled past the tea stall and circled the building, parking near the back. Aranyak jumped off, helped the old woman down with care, and handed the boy his fare.

  I hopped out after them. And regretted it immediately, when a bolt of pain shot through my left knee.

  Despite my clenched jaw, a low, involuntary whimper slipped out.

  Aranyak’s hand shot forward, grabbing my shoulder just in time to keep me from faceplanting into the dirt.

  The old woman clicked her tongue again, gently rubbing my back. “You really must watch your feet, young man. All this stumbling around like a newborn calf won’t do at all.”

  Gritting my teeth, I limped after them as they entered the clinic through a side door.

  It was the smell that hit me first.

  A cloying, gut-churning mix of antiseptic, sweat, urine, and the metallic sweetness of blood.

  We found ourselves in a cavernous hall, though there was barely space enough to take a single step. The walls – bare except for two narrow doorways on opposite sides – were lined end to end with metal cots. Almost all of them were occupied, some by single patients, others with two people crammed together. Some of the patients lay in limp silence, while others moaned and writhed and jostled for a sliver of space.

  The rest of the floor was blanketed with thin, worn mattresses. More patients lay sprawled across them. Some were swaddled in sweat-soaked sheets, while others curled into themselves, murmuring feverishly. Some groaned in pain, and the rest just stared blankly up at the ceiling.

  The narrow lanes between beds allowed barely enough room for one person to pass at a time. Forcing everyone to move carefully, sidestepping outstretched limbs and scattered plastic water bottles.

  At the far end of the room, a heavily pregnant woman lay on a cot. Her breathing shallow and rapid, she looked alarmingly close to labor.

  No one paid her the slightest heed.

  And in a room packed wall to wall with people who looked near-death, I could scarcely fault them.

  Two women and a man moved briskly among the cots and mattresses, navigating the tangle of writhing bodies with practiced ease.

  One of the women stopped to cut away the damp bandage on a man’s thigh, before swiftly replacing it with a fresh dressing. The other carried a dented tray of pill packets, distributing them among the patients. Pausing occasionally to pour water into a patient’s mouth or help them sit upright.

  For his part, the man was refilling IV bags from a battered metal trolley, attaching fresh saline to the tubes with swift, precise movements.

  The three of them swept through the room with calm precision, never appearing rushed or frantic. And by some miracle, never getting in each other’s way.

  In one corner of the room, behind a scarred wooden desk, sat a bespectacled man in his late fifties. He scribbled furiously into a notepad. And glanced up occasionally to bark orders at the three attendants.

  Seeming completely unbothered by the chaos, Aranyak steered the old woman around a cluster of mattresses, his hands gentle on her frail shoulders. He made straight for the man sitting at the desk.

  I trailed close behind, doing my best not to trip or step on anyone. As much for my own safety as theirs. Because I was pretty sure Aranyak would bury me alive, if I accidentally killed any of the near-dead people in this room.

  Once we reached the desk, Aranyak exchanged a few quick words with the bespectacled man.

  The latter nodded curtly. And waved over the younger of the two female attendants – the one who’d been distributing pills. He handed her a hastily scribbled piece of paper.

  Taking the note, she skimmed it. Then turned to the old woman with a gentle smile. “Auntie, come with me.” With a light touch on her shoulder, she took over from Aranyak. “This way.”

  The old woman went without protest. And together, they disappeared through one of the narrow doorways.

  That left Aranyak and me as the only two outsiders amidst the palpable suffering of the overcrowded hall.

  “Well, what do you have for us?” Aranyak asked, resting a hand on the rickety desk.

  The bespectacled man snorted. “I have everything you could want, and more. Far be it from me to say no to an extra pair of hands.” He pushed his glasses up his nose. “We’ve got a bricklayer with a fractured wrist. Third cot on your left. We’ve immobilized the arm temporarily, but it still needs to be set. Next to him, that boy with the burns? He’s long overdue for a fresh dressing. We’re short on antiseptics, so go easy on them for now.”

  He then gestured to a middle-aged woman sprawled on a thin mattress near the back. Her face was flushed, her breathing ragged. “And Mala has severe dehydration. She’s burning up. We need to cool her down and get fluids in her slowly. See if she can sip some water.”

  Aranyak nodded along, absorbing it all with grim focus. “We’ll start with the fractured wrist, and go from there.” He snapped his fingers at me. “Come on. The clock’s ticking.”

  I blinked. “Me?”

  “Yes, you. You’ve got two working hands. And if you want lunch this afternoon, you’ll put them to good use. There are no free meals in Zilan.”

  “But I-I have no medical training. I’ve never treated anyone. Well, unless you count slathering burn cream on my old college roommate, every time he set foot in the kitchen.” I frowned. “The man could set water ablaze.”

  “Medical training?” Aranyak snorted. “I studied four years to get a degree in mechanical engineering. Raghav here,” he gestured at the bespectacled man. “Graduated top of his class. In political science.” Raghav nodded proudly at this revelation. “If you’ve got anything between those ears besides air, you’ll manage. Nobody’s expecting you to perform surgery. Just help me keep these people from making their injuries worse.”

  With that, he turned on his heel and headed for the injured bricklayer. Leaving me no choice but to choke back my rising panic and hobble after him.

  The man – who looked to be in his late twenties – lay awkwardly on his cot, his wrist already swollen to twice its normal size. It was wrapped in a crude splint of cardboard and gauze. His face was taut with pain, and faint whimpers escaped his parched lips every now and then.

  “Alright brother,” Aranyak murmured, kneeling beside him. “We’re just gonna take a quick look. Try to stay still for me, okay?”

  The man’s eyelids fluttered, his clouded gaze settling briefly on Aranyak.

  “Hold this steady,” he commanded, gesturing to the man’s elbow.

  I hesitated, but that was quickly cured by his withering glare. My hands trembling, I reached out and gripped just below the joint. And held firm, even as the man flinched and groaned, making my heart pound painfully against my ribs.

  I’d been told I had strong nerves. But I was quickly learning that they didn’t hold up in situations where someone else could be permanently maimed due to my incompetence.

  “Good. Now keep it exactly like that.” Aranyak unwrapped the splint with practiced efficiency, revealing deep bruising. The bone was clearly misaligned, and the sight made my stomach churn.

  “This is going to hurt. A lot. But only for a moment,” he told the bricklayer, one hand bracing the broken wrist. “Bite down on your pillow, if you must.”

  With a brief glance at me, he instructed: “You hold his arm steady, just above the break. Firm, but not too tight. We need to slot this bone back into place, that’s all.”

  I did as directed, shifting and tightening my grip. Trying to be as gentle as possible while still providing adequate support.

  My knee pulsed with pain against the unyielding floor where I knelt.

  I ignored it, too absorbed by the grim focus creasing Aranyak’s brow. “On the count of three,” he murmured, and I braced myself.

  He finished the count and, without hesitation, pulled and twisted the fractured wrist in a quick, precise motion. The man howled, his body bucking on the cot. I almost lost my grip, but forced myself to hold steady, keeping the elbow anchored as Aranyak coaxed the bones back into alignment.

  “There,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “That’s better.”

  He signaled to the male attendant, who immediately brought over a fresh set of wooden splints and bandages. Wordlessly, Aranyak motioned for me to support the wrist while he began securing it.

  As he worked, he spoke in a low voice. “There’s no proper hospital in this village. Or the surrounding ones. If you want real treatment, the closest place you’ll get it is Zhyn. For those who’re too sick to travel that far – or don’t have the money for it – this clinic is the only option. They’ll treat everything from a runny nose to a heart attack. Not because they have the facilities or the expertise for it. But because if they don’t, no one else will.”

  I tightened the gauze under his direction, the bricklayer’s arm finally stabilized and resting more naturally against his chest.

  “Not to mention,” the male attendant chimed in, replacing an IV bag one cot over. “All the inflow from the peripheries only clogs up the government hospitals in Zhyn. Overcrowded wards, overworked staff. You get there on a particularly busy day,” he shrugged. “You might’ve had a better chance at our clinic.”

  As we made our way to the boy with the burns, I asked, “Where are the doctors?” One of the wires jutting from my anklet dug uncomfortably into my skin. “How many do you have here?”

  “Two,” Aranyak replied, light catching the scar under his right eye. “Each puts in maybe two hours, three days a week. Sundays, we’re on our own.”

  The boy, our patient, couldn’t have been more than twelve. He let out a loud moan, shifting restlessly as we approached. Aranyak knelt beside him, running a hand through his sweat-matted hair.

  He moaned again, drawing the attention of the remaining female attendant. She looked over at us from across the room, where she was tending to a bald man in bloodstained clothing.

  For the first time since entering the clinic, I got a proper look at her face.

  Strikingly pretty, yet entirely unfamiliar.

  Well, except for those eyes. Large, expressive, and locked on me with unsettling focus.

  Those same eyes that had tracked me across the construction site, and then at the repair shop last night.

  Recognition, sudden and unwelcome, sent a chill down my spine.

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