“No.” I shook my head. The two men looked at each other, one raised an eyebrow. Their eyes drifted to the floor as I nudged the bag under my chair with my foot. I folded my arms across my chest.

With a shrug, they decided to leave the issue of the bag and resume the questioning. They had taken my birth certificate before they’d brought me to this room and now placed it on the table before me.

“Is this yours?” the mustached man asked.

I nodded.

“Look,” the other added, “you understand us, right? So here’s what you need to know. That nice lady who brought you here is going to be in a whole lot of trouble if you don’t start answering our questions. You may just be a kid, but we need to know who you are and why you’ve come here. If you don’t talk, that lady is going to jail instead of the hospital.”

The mustached man’s eyes flashed to his colleague for a split second and then returned to me. He did not contradict his colleague.

My heart sank to think of what Tilly had gone through on my account. From being quarantined with me in Antonia’s apartment to the accident on the road to Jalalabad and being trapped in the vault of the embassy, this woman I did not know had stood by me as steadfastly as any grandmother. Already I owed her my whole heart. I could not bear to think they would punish her for her kindness, not when she was so very ill.

“This is my paper,” I said plainly, pointing at the birth certificate. “My mother and father name is here.”

“So you were born here. How long did you live here?”

“Two years,” I said, feeling inadequate.

They started over, asking again the same questions that I’d not answered before. Little by little, my reluctance gave way and I gave them our address in Kabul, told them what my father did, and said that my grandparents were not living. The mustached man began making notes on his clipboard. I answered everything with the fewest possible words, both because of my limited English and because I did not want to give them any more information than I needed to.

You’ll need to keep it simple, Antonia had said to me on the phone in Islamabad. Tell them the truth, as much of the truth as you can bear to tell. They need to understand what you went through so that they can understand how important it is for you to stay.

But my name is not the truth, I’d replied.

My father had such disdain for liars and cheats. The corruption of an entire nation begins with one lie, I’d heard him say.

But Antonia had seen it differently.

The truths you will tell are far bigger and much more important than this one small change.