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But Rohan wasn't looking at the newsfeed. He looked at the top left, at the Messenger icon. A red number sat on it: .

The screen went white, then blue. The tiny, stripped-down interface of Facebook Lite began to materialize, line by line, like a ghost assembling itself.

The spinning circle stopped.

Below the photo, a caption: "For my little brother. Log in tonight at 8? I saved data for a video call."

The monsoon rain hammered a frantic rhythm on the tin roof of the tea stall. Inside, huddled on a broken plastic stool, sat Rohan, his cracked smartphone clutched in his hands like a lifeline. Outside, the small village of Purnagaon was a blur of grey water and mud. Inside, the only light came from a single, naked bulb that flickered with the storm’s every breath. fb lite log in

He looked up at Bhola, his face wet, and smiled. "The tower is fine," he said, his voice thick. "It's working just fine."

His heart thumped. He tapped it.

He pressed .