“Dr. Naqvi,” Kabir said, voice grave. “Is it the arteries?” Farah looked at him. She saw cortisol swelling his face. She saw terror—not of death, but of insignificance. “Your heart is fine, Kabir,” she said gently. “Physically, at least.” “But the pain,” Kabir insisted, touching his sternum. “It feels like something is sitting on my chest.” “Maybe something is,” Farah said. “Or maybe someone you haven’t spoken to.” Kabir frowned. “I don’t understand. I need a beta-blocker.” “I can give pills,” Farah said, opening the door. “But they won’t cure the silence in your house.” For a second, Kabir’s internal noise-cancelling malfunctioned. A steel plate of papaya. Shuffling slippers. A door clicking shut. He shook the thought away. She’s a quack. I’ll go to Max next week. “Just write the prescription, Doctor,” he said coldly.