Heads turn to follow my voice. Adam seems almost amused.

“Go on,” Clay says.

“People say ‘third world’ and think it just means countries without internet or paved roads,” I say. “But ‘third world’ is Cold War terminology. NATO countries are the first world and the Communist bloc is the second world. The third world was where those two clashed. So the mess in Afghanistan is actually a first and second world problem.”

The man shakes his head.

“We didn’t have soldiers before 9/11. We didn’t make the Taliban. They were there already.”

Adam notices I’ve moved forward in my seat. He puts a hand on my knee, his eyes are telling me to back down.

I seem completely incapable of biting my tongue today.

“The United States has always been willing to slip money and guns to anyone fighting the commies. Anyone. The U.S. didn’t meet the Taliban after 9/11. That’s just when they became the enemy.”

The man in the white T-shirt grumbles and mutters. I lean back in the chair, my heart pounding. The space between Adam and me is tangible. He’s shifted in his seat so that he’s leaning away.

“What she said,” Clay says, pointing at me and smiling.

“Indeed,” the bookstore owner says. She flips to her next index card. “There are a lot of layers to the conflict in Afghanistan. Let’s switch gears and talk about some of the surprises you found in Kabul. We never hear about lounges. Tell us about the Mirage.”

Adam takes out his phone, which is glowing with two new messages.

“Gotta return this call. Shouldn’t be long,” he whispers as he ducks out of the store.

When the talk ends, Clay Porter sits at a table near the checkout desk to sign books. Three people have lined up to have their books personalized. A woman hovers behind Clay, thanking his interviewer for arranging the talk. I’m standing on line to pay for the hardcover in my hands when Clay approaches me.

“Thanks for kicking up the conversation a notch,” he says. He tucks his book and pen into his messenger bag.

“I have a bad habit of saying what I’m thinking,” I reply.

“Honesty? Yeah, that disqualifies you from a whole lot of jobs.”

When I smile, Clay narrows his eyes slightly.

“Are you Afghan?” he asks. I’m taken aback. I thought he would ask me where I was from—not identify me.

“Does everyone look Afghan to you now?” I ask, with a laugh, a bit unnerved.

The woman speaking with the interviewer looks over at Clay without pausing in her conversation. She has long brown hair and is smartly dressed, like she fell out of a J.Crew catalog. She looks from me to Clay with curiosity.

“Anyway, thanks. This was great,” I say and turn to hand my credit card to the cashier.