She yanks on a chair, its legs scraping loudly against the wood floor as she drags it toward me. She plunks it down beside the bed and sits. Mani doesn’t stir.
I lean down and kiss the crown of Mani’s head—far away from his eyes or mouth and separated from my lips by a dark mop of messy curls. It’s the most I dare, and for a moment I am angry that I am deprived of even this small privilege, to be able to kiss my tiny brother on his sticky forehead. Gita must see the flash of emotion on my face, because she clears her throat.
“I gave him his medicine earlier this evening,” she says. “So he should be all set for a few days.” It didn’t need to be said—the acrid smell clings to the inside of my nostrils. I can practically taste it. So I take the statement for the reminder it is: Mani’s medicine for my work today. One life for another.
I pull the blanket up around his chin. “Thank you,” I say, though the words cut like glass as they leave my throat.
“So how did it go?” Gita asks, and the question makes me hate her a little. I know it is part of her job to find out, to report back to Gopal, to keep the operation running smoothly. But sometimes she stays for dinner before she reminds me that I’m just a task on her list.
And really, how does she think it went? I just killed someone based on nothing more than the fact that Gopal told me to. But it isn’t her burden to bear and so she never feels its weight. “It went fine,” I tell her. “No problems.”
“Good,” she says, nodding. “Good. And was he alone?”
My mind flashes to the boy shifting nervously on the balls of his feet, and my stomach clenches. “Yes,” I say, “he was all alone.” I want to ask her more, want her to tell me why he had to die, but I don’t say anything. Questions are against tradecraft. But I know I won’t sleep tonight, that I will see that boy over and over and wonder what he did, wonder what I did, and wonder which is worse.
Gita leaves then, promising to check in on me tomorrow. When she closes the door behind her, Smudge leaps over Mani and bumps my hand with her head. A not-so-subtle demand and I obey without thinking. She purrs softly as I rub the spot between her ears and worry that my only talent is compliance. But will I be talented enough to save Mani?
The next morning I wake to Mani perched on the edge of my bed, giggling. I rub my eyes with the heel of my hand. “What’s so funny?”
He grins at me and points to my middle. “Your tummy sounds like a creaky door.” I look down as if there were something to see. It’s true, though. My stomach is making horrendous noises, and I realize I haven’t eaten since the day before yesterday. I learned a long time ago never to eat on the day of a kill. I can’t keep anything down anyway, and so my body runs on adrenaline and guilt instead of food.
Besides, I work better when I’m hollow inside.
I sit up and rumple Mani’s hair. “Maybe we need to stop for pastries before we go to the bookshop today.”
His eyes light up and he bounces a little. “I forgot it was a bookshop day,” he says, and the excitement in his voice touches something raw inside me. He is so easily pleased. Life never gives him a full meal, but he is always so grateful for the table scraps. I wish I could be like that.
I help Mani get dressed and then I sit on the floor to braid my hair while he plays with Smudge. He waves a piece of yarn just out of her reach, and she flies through the air like a furry gymnast, sending Mani into a fit of giggles. They play until Smudge grows bored and saunters away.
Mani moves to the edge of the bed and begins swinging his legs, kicking the bed frame. The sound is grating; it thumps in time with the pounding in my head, but I don’t tell him to stop. I spent most of last night staring at the ceiling, and I didn’t fall asleep until pink light had already started seeping through the curtains, so I couldn’t have slept long. I feel that weird detached feeling that comes from too little sleep and not enough food. Or maybe from killing a man.
But today will be different. Today I get to step into another world. One where people die only in stories.
I slide wide bracelets onto both of my wrists to hide the scars there—dozens of pairs of shiny marks to remind me of the price of poison—and then I stand up and hold out a hand to Mani. “Are you ready, monkey?”
“Ready,” he says as he slides his small hand into mine. Holding on to him makes me feel substantial, like if he weren’t there, I might just float away.
Mani begins to tire after only a few blocks, so I let him set the pace and it’s a plodding one. But when he catches sight of the bakery, he tugs at my fingers and speeds up. The smell of butter and sugar hits us in the face, a blissful kind of agony that coaxes a happy little sigh from Mani.