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.
“Run,” I whispered.
Meera saw me. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. That silence—that absolute, terrified silence—was louder than any scream. night attack on my little sister