The yard was a floodplain by the time Jagan bought the hose. Leena knelt in the center of the grass, mud seeping between her toes, cold water streaming down her back in rivulets that carved clean paths through the layers of dried sweat and wax and other men's seed. The nozzle in his hand was brass, heavy, the kind meant for washing cars, and he held it like a weapon.

"Hands on your head," he said.