“No,” the clean-shaven man said, looking at the birth certificate again. He turned it over and held it up to the light, as if it were a gem and he was assessing its clarity. “That’s not how this works. You do tell a mighty story, but we’ve got to do some homework now. You’re going to be going somewhere else until we can figure out what’s what.”

Chapter 28

Once upon a time in Kabul, I stood at the far end of my block and spotted four boys gathered in a circle. These boys had been troublesome in the past. They pestered younger children and made a sport of kicking a ball against a neighbor’s gate and then hiding around the corner. I walked toward them, wanting to see what had captured their attention.

The boys had crowded around a stray dog, one with tawny fur and dark-rimmed eyes. The boys had tied a rope around his hind leg and were taking turns poking at his prominent ribs and hunched shoulders with a long stick. The dog yapped and whimpered, gnawing at the rope.

Leave him alone! I’d hollered at them.

The stick passed from hand to hand. The boys either hadn’t heard me or chose to ignore me. As I stepped closer, I noticed that one of the dog’s front paws was deformed. It was shorter than the others, not quite reaching the ground. Given the shape he was in, it was a wonder he was still putting up a fight.

The dog managed to kick up a small tornado of dust as he struggled against the pull of the rope and the boys orbiting his misery.

I shouldered my way through the ring and took the stick out of one boy’s unsuspecting hand. I snapped it in half and then snapped those pieces in half again. A boy holding the rope stepped toward me.

What do you think you’re doing, stupid? he demanded.

How can you call me stupid with a face like that? I fired back, with all the drama of a Bollywood hero. What incredible hunters you are to have captured a lame dog! God save you all, future heroes of our country.

I coiled the rope around my hand.

A boy in an untucked shirt and threadbare jeans made a go for the rope, clawing at my forearm. I pulled sharply away, but when I turned my back to him, he reached over my shoulder, then under my elbow. I stomped on his foot, and he let out a howl. I stomped on his other foot. His friends snickered to see him hopping backward. After two hops, he fell onto his backside. I hurdled one last jeer as he crawled away.

If your father asks about your scraped knees, be sure to tell him you were fighting with a girl!