The heat arrived before Anita did.
She felt it the moment the cab turned off the main road into the lane: a wall of still, wet air pressing against the windows as the trees closed over them. Mango, cashew, jackfruit, coconut, they leaned in from both sides until the lane felt less like a road and more like something the forest was allowing. The air had the particular weight of late May in coastal Goa, not just hot but charged, the way the sky gets when it has been promising something for weeks and has not yet delivered. Palolem was only a kilometre away, but this dead end belonged to a different world entirely.