Arya called Meera from the old road that ran along the edge of the forest, the one place in Kishkindha where mobile signal was reliable.
Meera picked up on the second ring.
"Arya? It's been like eight months —"
"I need to meet you," Arya said. "It's urgent."
A pause. "Okay. What's going on?"
"Not on the phone. Can you come to Nagarhole? I'll send you a location."
"Arya, I'm kind of in the middle of a very big —"
"Is it the Kabini Dam story?"
A longer pause. "Yeah. How do you know about —"
"Come," Arya said. "What I'm going to tell you is bigger than what you already have."
They met at a small tea stall at the forest edge. Meera arrived on her motorcycle, hair in a messy braid, laptop bag over one shoulder, recorder already half out of her pocket.
Arya had known Meera for five years. She was sharp, careful with facts, stubborn in the best way, and she had a talent for finding the human story inside bureaucratic disasters. She was also the kind of person who, when she found out Arya was not entirely what she appeared to be, might actually listen instead of running.
Might.
They ordered chai.
Arya said: "If I show you something that changes your understanding of everything, will you sit still and let me explain before you react?"
Meera put down her recorder. "That is either the best opening to a story I've ever heard, or you are in serious trouble."
"Both," Arya said. "Probably both."
Then she let her tail out.
Just for a second. Just enough.
Meera stared. The chai went cold between them.
Then Meera said, very slowly: "Okay. Start from the beginning."
