The moon was a blister on the sky, full and yellow as old bone, when the bolt slid back with a sound like a finger snapping.
Neha woke not to the noise but to the change in the air, a current of cooler breath that told her the door was open before her eyes could confirm it. She had been dreaming of Papa. In the dream he had been sitting at the edge of her mat, his hand resting on her hip with the weight of absolute ownership, and she had been warm and safe and utterly possessed. The dream scattered as two shadows filled the doorway, their silhouettes backlit by the weak glow of the dying kitchen fire, and for one groggy, uncomprehending moment she thought he has come for me again.
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