“Kiran did what Kiran always did: she got angry. Anger was her native language, the tongue she'd been born speaking, the emotion that came as easily as breathing. She was angry at Beena for leaving. Angry at Baba for not preventing it. Angry at Savita Atya for the lies. Angry at herself for not seeing it coming — because in hindsight, the signs had been there. The silence at dinner that lasted a beat too long. The way Beena stared out the kitchen window at something that wasn't the neighbour's building but wasn't nothing either. The phone calls taken in the bedroom with the door closed. The slow, steady withdrawal of warmth, like a tide going out so gradually that by the time you noticed the water was gone, you were standing on dry sand wondering when the ocean left.”