We burst into the headman’s courtyard, and I banged on the iron bell meant for fires and floods.
The man with the knife laughed. Soft. Like gravel rolling downhill. “Go back to sleep, little cock. This is not your business.”
“You saved her,” my mother said to me. night attack on my little sister
That night, Meera slept on the cot again. She held my hand so tight that her small nails left crescents on my palm. And I did not let go. Not when the jackal howled. Not when the wind moved the trees like fingers. Not even when sleep finally came, heavy and dreamless.
The next morning, my mother washed Meera’s feet. There were cuts on the soles. She did not cry. We burst into the headman’s courtyard, and I
Behind us, the man with the broken wrist was shouting. The other was groaning. But we knew the path to the headman’s house—every root, every turn. We ran barefoot through thorn and stone, and Meera did not make a sound. Not one.
Then I heard it again. A wet, choked sound, like someone trying to speak through a hand clamped over their mouth. It came from the old well behind the jackfruit tree. Like gravel rolling downhill
I grabbed Meera’s hand. Her fingers were ice. Her palm was wet—not with blood, but with her own sweat and terror.