The interior of the Range Rover at speed was — the specific, enclosed warmth of a high-end vehicle moving through Mumbai night traffic. The leather.
The ambient sound system doing something soft at a low volume that the driver had apparently defaulted to. The lights of the city coming through the windows in the specific, moving-light way of a car on a wet road.
Meera was sitting.
Her hand on her belly. Her other hand, reaching toward him — she had reached toward him twice since the car started moving and had pulled back both times, the specific, hesitating reach of someone who wanted to help and wasn't sure what helping looked like.
He was sitting with his hand pressed flat against his side. His breathing — controlled. The specific, deliberate breathing of someone who was managing something through respiratory pace.
She looked at his face.
She reached again.
