As his thoughts turned to the possibility of escape a question arose: to where and to what end? For so many years his life had been directionless, it was hard to remember a time when he was driven by dreams and ambitions of his own. He could no longer drift through days and weeks, in a haze of opium smoke. There were decisions to be made. He had a new family to look after. The plans of the Soviet defector returned to his thoughts, the aspiration of crossing the border into Pakistan and taking asylum with the Americans, seeking their protection in exchange for the information he had about the occupation of Afghanistan. It would serve two ends: survival and an opportunity to reach New York. Yet while that option would protect Nara and Zabi, there would be grave risks to his daughters in Moscow if he defected. His mind had grown slack with opiate-laziness and was unaccustomed to such dilemmas. Sensing the enormity of the journey ahead, Leo felt hungry, a sensation one that yesterday he would’ve sworn he’d never experience again.

Nara and Zabi were sitting at the mouth of the cave. He joined them, discreetly noting his surroundings and the number of soldiers. The girls were eating shlombeh, milk curd with flat bread studded with spices. Though he felt better, he decided against milk curd, instead ripping pieces of the warm flat bread. He ate slowly, chewing carefully. The dough was dense and pungently seasoned with crushed cardamom seeds. He ripped another fragment, the oil turning his fingertips yellow. Watching him eat, the young girl said:

—Are you better now?

Leo finished chewing before replying.

—Much better.

—What was wrong with you?

—I was sick.

Nara said to Zabi:

—Let him eat.

But Zabi continued her questioning.

—What were you sick with?

—Sometimes a person can become sick from giving up. They’re not suffering from a disease. They have no sense of purpose, or direction, despair can make a person sick.

Zabi concentrated on everything he said as carefully as if it was the wisdom of an ancient professor. She noted:

—You speak my language very well for an invader.

Zabi was forthright, blunt in her observations and fearless for a girl without a family, so far from home, a home that she’d witnessed being destroyed. Leo answered:

—When I arrived in this country I was a guest. There was no Soviet army. No military garrisons. And I set about learning your language. But you are right. Now that my country has invaded, I am no longer a guest.

—Is Len-In your god?

Leo smiled at the way in which she pronounced the name. He gently shook his head.

—No, Lenin is not my god. How did you know that name?

Zabi took another spoonful of the milk curd.