He was sitting on a bench outside the clinic, furiously highlighting a passage in a book titled The Architecture of Peace. He looked manic. His eyes were bright but hollow. "You are reading very fast," a voice said. "Are you trying to finish the book, or are you trying to finish the pain?" Kabir looked up. It was Shukla Master, the retired schoolteacher who frequented the clinic for his arthritis. He was a man who moved like a slow river—unhurried, inevitable. He was peeling an orange, spiraling the rind in one long, unbroken strip. "I'm trying to understand," Kabir said defensively, tapping the book. "I need to fix this. I need to clear the debt."