The rain hammered the tin roof of the storage shed like a thousand fists. Water streamed through the gaps in the warped wooden walls, pooling on the packed-earth floor. Outside, the night was black and the village paths had turned to mud. Saanvi had been half a kilometre from her assigned hut when the storm broke, lightning cracking the sky open. She had run for the nearest cover—this low, narrow shed that smelled of damp grain sacks, old rope, and kerosene.

She was still catching her breath, soaked kurta clinging to her breasts and stomach, when the door slammed inward.