She couldn’t believe her luck. He hadn’t gone far. She found him lying face down in the drain. Blood from his vomit formed dark stains on his shirt.
She looked around. The drizzling rain had coerced everyone into their houses. In the darkness, even if someone saw them, none acknowledged. They turned him around. She grabbed his hands and started dragging him back to the house. Her daughter followed the small canal in the dirt plowed by his heels. It didn’t escape her mind. Her daughter was following a rhythm of 3 to 2 steps. She loved doing everything in 3. Even now.
Inside the house, she removed his shirt. Wiped him clean. Put him on the mat. She found the sickle on the floor. She tucked it away, with other knives and sharp things. Then she poured some ink on the scald on her daughter’s cheek. Never mind.  It was too late now. She will have to live with that ugly scar.
After putting her daughter to bed, she took out the bottle from inside the flush tank. She poured out more than half of the liquor into the toilet. Poured water to compensate. Replaced the bottle. And then she waited.