“Meera?” My voice was a cracked whisper.
The dark under the jackfruit tree was absolute. But shapes moved there. Two men, low to the ground. One held a jute sack. The other—his hand was over Meera’s face. She was kicking, her small legs flailing, her eyes wide as broken plates. night attack on my little sister
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. “Meera
“Run,” I whispered.