Page 139 of Sexting the Pakhan

My stomach tightens. “What number?”

She looks at me.

I know before she says it. The unknown number.

My phone suddenly feels heavy in my pocket.

“What about it?” I ask.

Her eyes fill with guilt. “Do you know who you’ve been texting all these years?”

I stare at her. “No.”

She swallows. “Zoya.”

Before she can say anything else, Dr. Mehra calls from the kitchen. “Karina? I need those towels now.”

Karina shuts her mouth. For a second, we just look at each other in the hallway.

“What were you going to say?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Later.”

“No. Don’t do that.”

Dr. Mehra calls again, sharper this time. “Karina.”

Karina turns immediately. “Coming.” She takes the towels and goes back into the kitchen.

I stand in the hallway for another second, trying to steady myself.

Something is wrong. Not just the shooting. Not just Ruslan being here. Not just the fact that he’s sitting in my kitchen after six years like the past has decided to bleed on my floor.

Karina knows something. And whatever it is, she’s afraid to say it.

I walk back into the kitchen.

Dr. Mehra has moved Ruslan’s chair closer to the light. His leg is stretched out, his trouser fabric cut open around the wound. There’s blood on the towel under his thigh, on Dr. Mehra’s gloves, and on the floor by the chair.

Ruslan’s face is still pale, but he looks alert. He watches the room like he’s making a map of it.

Dr. Mehra looks up when I enter. “Wash your hands, then hold this gauze here. Firm pressure. Don’t lift unless I tell you.”

I do what she says. There’s no space for questions after that.

Dr. Mehra works quickly. She cleans the wound, checks the exit point, asks Ruslan short questions, and doesn’t let him get away with vague answers.

“When was your last tetanus shot?” she asks.

Ruslan says, “I don’t remember.”

Dr. Mehra pauses and looks at him. “You should.”

“I don’t.”

“Fine. Add that to the list.”

Karina stands near the counter, handing over whatever Dr. Mehra asks for. Warm water. More gauze. Medical tape. A trash bag. She’s quiet, but she keeps looking at the doctor in a way I can’t miss.