Chapter 3
Morning classes usually feel slow.
Today they feel slower.
The classroom is louder than usual, though no one is speaking loudly. Chairs scrape against the floor. Someone whispers in the back row. A few students glance in my direction and quickly look away.
News travels fast in schools.
Especially after a fight.
I sit near the window.
My book is open.
But I am not reading.
Beside me, Vikram leans back in his chair and studies my face.
"You're too quiet today," he says.
"I'm always quiet."
"You know that's not what I mean."
I turn a page slowly.
Vikram lowers his voice.
"So it's true?"
"Yes."
"You fought them?"
"I didn't start it."
"That's not what people are saying."
"That's normal."
He watches me for a moment.
"And the rest?"
"What rest?"
"They said you didn't stop."
I close the book.
"That part is true."
Vikram exhales slowly.
"You're strange, Yash."
"Maybe."
Before he can say more, the classroom door opens.
The teacher walks in.
Everyone settles.
The room becomes quiet.
The lesson begins.
Numbers fill the board.
Equations.
Explanations.
But my attention drifts.
The clock on the wall reads 9:58 AM.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Then there is a knock.
The teacher stops writing.
"Yes?"
A staff member from the office stands at the door.
"Sorry to interrupt," she says.
She looks directly at me.
"Yash, could you come to the office please?"
Vikram raises an eyebrow.
"Already?" he whispers.
I stand up without answering.
The hallway feels unusually quiet.
The staff member walks beside me.
She says nothing.
That is strange.
Usually someone explains.
We reach the office.
The principal stands near the desk.
A phone rests on the table.
Still connected.
"Yash," the principal says gently.
"Your mother called from the hospital."
For a moment, the room feels still.
"My mother?"
He hesitates.
"There was an accident."
My thoughts stop for a second.
"Who?"
"Your father."
The word hangs in the air.
"He's alive," the principal says carefully.
"Your mother is with him."
Accident.
Father.
Alive.
Alive means breathing.
Alive does not mean safe.
The principal picks up the receiver from the desk and hands it to me.
I press it to my ear.
"Yash?" my mother's voice says, trembling slightly.
"Yes."
"There was an accident."
"I know."
"He's being taken to the hospital."
I hear sirens somewhere in the background.
"Your grandfather is coming to pick you and Anya."
"When?"
"Soon."
"Which hospital?"
"City General."
She pauses.
"Stay calm."
"I am."
"I know."
The line goes quiet.
Then the call ends.
The office is silent again.
A few minutes pass.
Then the door opens.
A teacher steps inside.
Behind her is a small figure.
Anya.
She looks around the room curiously.
Then she sees me.
"Yash?"
"I'm here."
She walks toward me quickly.
"Why did they bring me here?"
I kneel slightly so we are the same height.
"Dad had an accident."
Her eyes widen.
"Is he okay?"
"Yes."
She studies my face.
"You're thinking."
"I always think."
"That means something is wrong."
I pause.
Then I remember something Mom says sometimes.
"Thinking doesn't mean something is wrong," I tell her calmly.
"It just means we're trying to understand."
She considers that.
"But Dad is hurt."
"Yes."
"Is it bad?"
"I don't know yet."
"Then why are we going to the hospital?"
"Because that's where people go when they need help."
She nods slowly.
"That makes sense."
Then she looks at me again.
"Are you scared?"
I think about the question.
"No."
"What are you then?"
"Thinking."
"About what?"
"The accident."
She tilts her head.
"You're trying to understand it?"
"Yes."
"That sounds like Mom."
"Maybe."
Outside the school gate, a taxi stops.
A moment later, our grandfather steps out.
His posture is straight, but slower than I remember.
The principal speaks with him quietly.
Grandfather nods once.
Then he looks toward us.
"Come," he says.
"We're going to the hospital."
The taxi moves through the city.
Anya sits between us.
She holds my sleeve with one hand.
Grandfather watches the road through the window.
The city outside looks normal.
Cars pass.
People cross the street.
Shops open their doors.
It feels strange.
Nothing looks different.
But everything is.
After a while, Anya looks at me.
"Yash?"
"Yes?"
"Do you think Dad will wake up soon?"
"I think the doctors will help him."
"That's not what I asked."
I think for a moment.
"Yes," I say finally.
"I think he will."
She nods slowly.
Then she asks quietly,
"Will he want to hear about my first day?"
The words stay in the air.
For a moment, I don't answer.
Then I say gently,
"Yes.
I think he will want to hear everything."
She nods again.
Then she holds my hand.
The hospital building appears ahead.
Tall.
White.
Busy.
The taxi slows near the entrance.
People move quickly in and out of the emergency doors.
The car stops.
For a moment, Anya doesn't move.
She looks at the building.
Then Anya squeezes my hand.
I hold it firmly.
For the first time since the phone call,
my thoughts stop moving.
We step out of the taxi.