During my gap year between college and university, I stayed in India with my sister and her new husband. They had married that summer, and I joined them in September. They lived alone in Agra, in a flat on the sixth floor with a view of the Yamuna River.

On my third night, I couldn’t sleep. I sat up in bed, wide awake—jet-lagged, listening to the barking dogs, the rattling air conditioner, and the noise of autos and motorbikes outside. Then I thought I heard something. At first it was faint, but it grew clearer and more desperate. It was my sister—was she calling my name? Was she crying? She sounded frightened. I got out of bed and turned off the fan. I stood there in my black nightie, listening hard. A dog screamed somewhere below. My sister seemed to be saying, “Uh huh huh…”