The cold, unyielding concrete floor of the storage room offered no comfort to fifteen-year-old Khwahish. It was 4:30 in the morning, and the heavy winter chill of December had seeped through the thin, ragged blanket she had wrapped around her shivering shoulders. There was no window in her room, only a small ventilation grate near the ceiling that let in the biting draft and the distant, muffled sounds of stray dogs fighting in the alleyway.

She opened her eyes, her vision swimming in the pitch-black darkness. Every joint in her body screamed in protest as she pushed herself up into a sitting position. Her palms were calloused and peeling, the skin raw from the cheap, caustic dishwashing soap Sunita bought in bulk specifically for her to use. Her back ached with a dull, throbbing intensity from hauling heavy buckets of water up two flights of stairs the previous night because the upstairs plumbing had temporarily failed.