Tanvi wiped the sweat from her brow as she stood by the dusty highway under the scorching Indian sun. She was 22, with long black hair tied in a messy ponytail, wearing a simple salwar kameez that clung to her curves from the humidity. Her car had broken down miles back, and she'd been thumbing for a ride for over an hour. Finally, a massive truck rumbled to a stop, its horn blaring like a beast awakening. The driver, a burly man in his forties with a thick mustache and sweat-stained shirt, leaned out the window.

"Kyaa chahiye, ladki? Ride chahiye?" (What do you want, girl? Need a ride?) he grunted, eyeing her up and down.