Chapter 6

The rain began as it often did in Pokhara—soft, persistent, almost soothing.

Jack noticed it first as background noise while reviewing notes at his desk: a steady patter on the tin awnings, the smell of wet earth drifting through the open window. By morning, the sound had thickened, heavy and insistent, drumming against roofs and roads alike.

By noon, the river had started to rise.

Word traveled quickly. A low-lying settlement upriver had flooded overnight, and by mid-afternoon a hillside not far from one of Jack’s pilot project sites gave way, sending mud and stone sliding down into a cluster of homes.

No one was killed. That, at least, was one piece of good news.

Everything else came after.

Jack was pulled into response work almost immediately.

Raj Bhatta’s voice on the phone was calm but clipped. “We need assessments. Today. You know the watershed data better than most—bring your maps.”

By the time Jack reached the site, the rain had reduced the road to a slick ribbon of mud. Villagers stood in clusters, silent, watching the swollen earth as if waiting for it to move again.

Jack worked alongside local officials and NGO staff, boots sinking with every step. He measured erosion lines, documented damage to water channels, tried to explain—carefully, respectfully—how deforestation upslope had worsened the slide.

People listened. Some nodded. Others stared past him. The tension was palpable—not anger, exactly, but grief mixed with suspicion.

This was the first time Jack felt the full weight of being a foreign expert in a moment of local loss.

The days blurred together. Morning briefings, field assessments, and emergency meetings held under leaking tarps. Jack ate when someone handed him food. He slept when exhaustion forced him to. His notebook filled with rushed diagrams and half-legible Nepali.

Tom worked a different site, but they exchanged tired nods when they crossed paths. Eric and Natalie were equally stretched—focused, efficient, emotionally distant in the way only people in crisis mode could be.

Raj remained steady, but Jack noticed the strain beneath his professionalism. This was not the project timeline they had planned for. This was survival work.

On the third day, the directive came down.

The Peace Corps was severely limiting non-essential contact. There was to be no unnecessary movement. No social visits. No deviation from assigned duties. The order was delivered kindly, but firmly.

“People are scared,” Raj explained. “We must not add uncertainty.”

Jack understood. Of course he did.

Still, the restriction felt like another narrowing—another line drawn around his already constrained life.

That night, soaked and exhausted, Jack stood in his room staring at his phone.

He typed. Deleted. Typed again.

Finally, he sent:

Jack:
Are you okay?

The reply came an hour later.

Anjana:
Yes. My family is safe.
I heard about the slide near your project area.

Jack:
I’m there most days now.

Anjana:
Be careful.

That was all. No warmth. No teasing. No lingering. Not because it was gone—but because this was not the moment for it.

Jack set the phone down and lay back on his bed, listening to the rain hammer the roof above him. The ground had shifted—literally and figuratively. And Jack knew this crisis would test more than his technical skills. It would test his place here.

The questions began quietly. They always did. At first, they were framed as practical concerns—reasonable, even necessary.

“Why was this slope chosen for study?”
“Who approved the drainage plan?”
“Why were trees cut above the settlement?”