Uma lay on a row of three chairs, using her backpack as a pillow. A sharp edge from inside the pack poked her neck; she suspected it to be her Chaucer. The pain was on ts way back-she could feel its early forays in her bones. She shivered. The heating system had been broken for-was it thirty-six hours now? The room had grown very cold, and it didn’t help that water had seeped into her shoes.

She longed to remember something beautiful and warm, and what came to her was a summer walk she had taken in the hills with Ramon. But before she could recollect anything more than a sloping trail of slippery orange gravel and a wicker basket filled with picnic supplies, a commotion rose in the room.

She heard voices raised in protest and the unmistakable sound of a slap. Had they gone mad? Didn’t they remember their precarious situation? Lily ran past her. In the shaky ray of the flashlight, which Cameron had turned toward the quarrel, she saw Mangalam fling the teenager to the ground with a thwack and Tariq launch himself at Mangalam. Plaster drizzled from the broken ceiling in protest, and her throat constricted with terror. But consumed by their passions, the two men were oblivious of the danger in which they placed the entire company.

When Cameron hurried toward the melee, Uma followed. She was worried about him: after digging Tariq out, he had coughed until he was forced to use his inhaler again. She also realized that she had forgotten to warn Cameron of Tariq’s threat.

I’m going to kill him.

It was as she feared. When Cameron tried to pry Tariq’s hands from Mangalam’s throat, Tariq punched him hard. Blood gushed from Cameron’s nose. Malathi was sobbing, pulling at Tariq’s hair. Tariq swatted her away. For some reason, Cameron wouldn’t hit Tariq back (Uma was sure he could have knocked him out again) but tried to grab his arms. Tariq’s eyes were crazed. He butted Cameron hard with his head and Cameron reeled back, gasping. It was like their very own Lord of the Flies! Uma couldn’t let it go on. She jumped into the fray, though she was terribly afraid for her broken arm, and caught Tariq’s shoulder. He turned, swinging, before he saw who it was. His fist hit her upper arm-her good arm, thank God. Still, she fell with a cry of pain. Perhaps that fall did some good because Tariq was startled into lowering his fists long enough for Cameron and Mr. Pritchett to catch him by the arms. He lunged at them, his mouth a snarl. But Lily added her efforts to the men’s, whispering fiercely into Tariq’s ear words that no one else could decipher, until he went limp and allowed her to lead him away.

THEY WERE SITTING CLOSE TOGETHER (CAMERON HAD INSISTED on it), trading distrustful glances in the half-dark. The larger flashlight had fallen to the ground. Cameron let it lie there. He was wheezing. He wiped his nose on his shirt, but the blood kept coming. This propelled Uma to stand up. She wasn’t sure what she was going to say, only that she needed to say something. For a moment her heart pounded. She had never liked speaking in front of a crowd. Even the lectures she had to give as a teaching assistant, with carefully prepared notes and jokes she had practiced in the bathroom mirror, had made her nervous. Then an ironic calm descended on her. Only a few things mattered when you were about to die, and what people thought of your speaking abilities was not one of them.

“Folks,” she began, “we’re in a bad situation. It looks like the earthquake was a serious one. We don’t know how long we’ll be stuck here. I’m scared, and I guess you are, too.”

She could see that no one wanted to listen. Mrs. Pritchett turned her face away. Mangalam was busy massaging his neck. Tariq had shut his eyes again. Malathi worried the sleeve of her sweatshirt. Lily, who was stuffing Cameron’s nostrils with clumps of Kleenex, scowled at her.

But she had to go on. “Unless we’re careful, things will get a lot worse. We can take out our stress on one another-like what just happened-and maybe get buried alive. Or we can focus our minds on something compelling-”

“Like what?” Mr. Pritchett said. “It’s not like we have cable TV down here.”

Uma refused to let him annoy her. An idea was taking shape in her mind. With a little burst of excitement, because she sensed the power behind it, she said, “We can each tell an important story from our lives.”

Mr. Pritchett looked offended. “This is no time for games.”

Mangalam grunted in agreement. Malathi crossed stubborn arms over her chest.

“It’s not a game,” Uma said. She hugged her backpack, wanting to tell them how powerful stories could be. But they were staring at her as though she were half-witted.

“What if we don’t have a story to tell?” Mrs. Pritchett asked, sounding anxious.

“Everyone has a story,” said Uma, relieved that one of them was considering the idea. “I don’t believe anyone can go through life without encountering at least one amazing thing.” A shiver came over her as she said the last words, a blurry déjà vu. Where had she heard the phrase before?

“You don’t know my life,” Mrs. Pritchett said.

“I’ve never told a story,” Mangalam announced flatly. His tone indicated that he wasn’t going to start now.

“It’s not difficult,” Uma said. “I’m sure you remember the stories your parents told you when you were little.” But at the mention of his parents, a shuttered look came over Mangalam’s face.

“I’m not good at explaining,” Malathi said. She looked unconvinced when Uma promised to help her find the right words.

“What if no one likes my story?” That was Lily.

Though Uma assured her they would love it, she shook her head and busied herself with rummaging in her backpack.

Tariq opened his eyes and glared at Uma. “Did you consider that we might not want everyone to know our business?” Before she could think of a rejoinder, he shut his eyes again.

One volunteer, Uma thought in desperation. That was all she needed. But even Cameron, whom she had counted on, was examining the lines on his palm.

Then she heard a voice, quavery, speaking English with a rusty Indian accent.

“I will be first.”

It was Jiang. They stared at her with varying degrees of incredulity.

“Gramma,” Lily began, “You can’t even speak English.”

Jiang blinked in the ray from the flashlight that Cameron had trained on her. Uma thought an impish expression flickered over her face. Had the old woman pretended, all these years, not to know the language of America?

Jiang said, “I am ready. I will tell my tale.”

THE RULES UMA SET DOWN WERE SIMPLE: NO INTERRUPTIONS, no questions, and no recriminations, especially by family members. Between stories, they would take breaks as needed.

They arranged the chairs into a circle. Malathi came out with a tin of Kool-Aid fruit punch. (Where had she hidden it? What else was she hiding?) She mixed it into the bowls of water sitting on the ounter, placed the bowls on a tray, and served them as though she were the hostess at a party. The sugar made people more cheerful, though Uma guessed it would ultimately make them feel worse. Oh, well! Carpe diem. Cameron switched off both flashlights. But in spite of the claustrophobic dark that fell on them, Uma sensed a new alertness in her companions, a shrugging off of things they couldn’t control. They were ready to listen to one another. No, they were ready to listen to the story, which is sometimes greater than the person who speaks it.

“WHEN I WAS A CHILD,” JIANG BEGAN, “I LIVED INSIDE A SECRET.”

From outside her house, in the narrow alley lined with the smelly gutters typical of Calcutta ’s Chinatown, an observer would have seen the ugly, square front of a building, windowless and muddy red like its neighbors. In the center of this façade was a low, narrow door of cheap wood, painted green. The door opened only a few times each day-for the children, who walked a few blocks to the Chinese Christian school, or for the father, who was picked up for work by the monthly taxi he shared with two other Chinese businessmen. Sometimes in the afternoon the grandmother might undertake a visit by rickshaw to her friends, all of whom lived within a mile of the house. Or a guest would arrive unexpectedly, causing a flurry of xcitement and a dispatching of the cook to the market for bean cakes or fresh lychees. Should the observer have peered into the interior of the house, he would have seen only another brick wall-the spirit wall, built for the express purpose of deflecting the outsider’s gaze.