“They’re not fictional,” she whispered. “They’re us.”
“That didn’t happen to Bauji,” she said.
“No,” Rohan said, taking it back. “Bauji used to say… this coin was paid to a wandering storyteller in 1971. In exchange, the storyteller gave him one tale. Just one. But Bauji said it was the only wealth that never depreciated.”
Meera didn’t think. She grabbed the frayed end and wrapped it around her own waist. She braced her feet against the well’s stone lip. Her brother dangled. The mud gave way. She slid—inches, then feet—but she did not let go. Her palms bled. Her spine screamed. For forty-five minutes, until the neighbors heard her cries, she held him.
“Tell me,” Kavya whispered, surprising herself.
“You’re a bigger idiot,” he replied, pulling her into a clumsy, side-armed hug. “You cried for fictional people.”
