The word their daughter spoke hung in the tent for a long moment before Tabib Ratri broke the silence with the brisk practicality of someone who had decided panic would help nobody.
"Talk to her," Ratri said, already reaching for a warm cloth to press against the girl's throat. "Whatever tongue that was, her own name might still reach her. Children surface toward the voices they trust before anything else."
Sekar leaned close, gripping her daughter's small cold hand hard enough that her own knuckles went white. "Sayang. It's Mama. I'm right here, and Papa's right here too, you're safe, do you hear me."
