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“The only sheep they saw was this one,” Nimmi says. “They could hear others farther up the mountain—but they wanted to help this one because she’s hurt.”

I ask Nimmi, “Do you know what might have caused the injury? Did someone do this deliberately?”

Nimmi moves closer to the animal, who is still lying on one side and breathing heavily. She leans forward with her elbow on the table and uses her forearm to hold the animal’s neck and head still while she peels the hide back as far as it will go. She probes the cuts with her fingers, as the sheep jerks and flinches.

“Illness didn’t cause these sores,” Nimmi says. “These are abrasions. Something was irritating her skin, and so she rubbed herself against a tree trunk or a rock—some hard surface—to scratch herself...or soothe herself...or maybe...”

When Nimmi eases her hold on the sheep and starts to examine one of its ears, she suddenly pulls back, and gasps.

The hair on my arm stands up.

Suddenly the air feels heavy, tense.

The children feel it, too. They look at me, then at Nimmi.

I say. “What is it?”

She frowns, staring at the animal, her lips a thin line. There’s something she doesn’t want to say. What?

Finally, Nimmi takes a breath and sighs. She says something to the girl, her hand on the girl’s shoulder. Again, they’re using words and gestures to communicate, and when the girl responds, Nimmi nods.

Then the girl turns to the boy, takes him by the arm, and leads him from the room.

Nimmi turns to me. “I told them we will help the animal. They mustn’t worry.”

I still don’t know what’s going on, but the set of her mouth tells me that she’s not going to tell me what she’s thinking. A bubble of resentment rises in my chest. I’m used to being in control of my exam room, my patients, the Healing Garden. But now even Sister is looking at Nimmi for instructions about what to do next. Sometime in the last fifteen minutes, Nimmi seems to have taken charge of my exam room. But she worksforus. She has no reason—or right—to hold anything back. My feelings are hurt; I can’t help it.

I point my chin at the sheep. The words that come out of my mouth are as sharp as the needles Jay uses at the hospital. “Ask Sister to get you the supplies you’ll need to dress the wound. She’ll help you.”

Before Nimmi has a chance to answer—to object or tell me that her only job is to tend the garden—I walk over to the basin, turn on the faucet and briskly begin washing my hands with soap.

She knows more about what’s happened—but she’s reluctant to share. I’ll talk to Jay about it when I see him this evening.

My husband comes home later than usual; the delivery of the twins was fraught with complications. His days are longer now that he also has so many administrative responsibilities, fundraising events, board meetings. When he returns from the hospital, he likes to have an hour to unwind together before dinner. He is settled in his favorite armchair in the drawing room with theTimes of Indiaanda glass of Laphroaig. I check on dinner—masala laukianddal, simmering on low, and join him. He hands me my glass of whiskey and a section of the newspaper.

But I can’t concentrate on the article about the ongoing battle between India and Pakistan over the Jammu/Kashmir area. We live over a hundred miles from there. And aside from Indian soldiers coming into Shimla for provisions or passing through on their way to the northeast provinces, we have little to do with the war. For Malik’s sake, I want it to stay that way. Providing provisions for profit is one of his specialties.

I fold the newspaper and set it aside. I sip my scotch.

Jay turns down a corner of his paper to peer at me. “What is it?”

I smile. My husband can sense my mood so easily.

“A sheep. At the clinic today. Two tribal children brought it in.”

“They brought in a sheep?”

“It was wounded.”

He chuckles, setting the paper on the table beside him. “Ah, that explains everything, then.” He drinks from his crystal tumbler, his eyes dancing.

I rise from the couch and sit on the arm of his chair. I love the salt-and-pepper curls that hang over his forehead; they grow too quickly and I’m forever brushing them away, as I do now.

“I called Nimmi to help. I thought she would be able to communicate better with the boy and girl.”

“And?”

I tuck a curl behind his ear; it springs back again. “Jay, what’s the reason someone would shear a sheep—halfway—and then sew the hide back on as if it hadn’t been sheared?”