Vikram Choudhary was in the district hospital in Morena, in a bed with a white sheet and an IV line and the moderate concussion that the doctor had diagnosed and said would resolve completely in two to three weeks. He was awake when they arrived, which was eleven o'clock at night, and the nurse who had clearly been managing visiting hours with the flexibility that district hospitals in provincial cities sometimes had, let all four of them in at once.
He looked at them. He looked at Tanya's expression, which still carried the specific quality of someone who had been in an enclosed space with something that changed how they saw things. He looked at Aryan, who was carrying the camera and had the expression of a man who had been given a question he did not know yet how to answer but was determined to answer it correctly.
"You found the way out," Vikram said.
"With help," Kabir said.
Vikram nodded slowly. The movement seemed to cost him something. "He let you out."
"You know him," Aryan said.
It was not quite a question. Vikram's face confirmed it without fully committing to it — the expression of a man who is going to be honest but has been deciding whether to be honest for some time and has reached the conclusion in the last few seconds.
"I've seen him twice before," Vikram said. "In fifteen years. Two different groups. Both times, the group was — the kind that treats the ravines as a theme park. One was a corporate team-building exercise. Adventure company, very well-marketed, completely without sense. The other was a television crew that filmed a reenactment in one of the caves without asking anyone's permission, dressed in fake dacoit costumes." He paused. "Both times, the group had equipment go missing. One person got — disoriented, lost briefly in the ravines. Found unharmed. The crew found their reenactment footage had been recorded over. By what, they couldn't explain."
"He was making a point," Tanya said.
"He always makes a point," Vikram said. "He is not a violent man. But he is a serious one."
