They both were in the hospital. Rooh lay on the bed, her body drenched in sweat, her hair plastered to her forehead, her face contorted with pain. Her gown was loose, damp, twisted around her from hours of movement. The sheets beneath her were rumpled, evidence of the struggle that had been going on for what felt like forever.

Inside the labour room, only Neel was with her. He had insisted. He had argued with the nurses, pulled rank as a doctor, and refused to leave her side. And now he stood beside her, his hand in hers, his face pale with fear. He had seen countless surgeries, had held brains in his hands, had faced death and brought people back from it.