“I make a living by chasing people down for a conversation. I figure if I make it easier on other people, maybe my next interview will be a little easier to land.”

“You believe in karma,” Mom observes.

“I believe in a lot of things that are real,” he replies with a grin. “Let me grab a cup of coffee. Anything for you ladies while I’m up there?”

We shake our heads, and he makes his way to the counter.

“You’re ready for this?” Mom looks at me, her eyes clouding with melancholy. I nod and smile tightly as Clay returns a moment later with a mug of steaming black coffee.

Mom notices my hesitation and clears her throat.

“Clay, as I mentioned in my email to you, I worked in Kabul. I was there until 1978.”

“Hmm. A year before the Soviets invaded. Why’d you leave then?” he asks. I tense at the realization that Clay will ask many questions because that is his nature, and because it has been my nature to avoid people like him.

“The Saur Revolution occurred that spring,” Mom says, and Clay nods. Mom pronounces Saur like “sour,” which sounds wrong in one way but right in another.

“The mission didn’t close down then, but some of us came home. Some stayed on a bit longer.”

Clay turns his attention to me.

“Were you there with her?” he asks.

“I was,” I say, then take a deep breath before I continue. “I lost my family around the time of the coup and came to the U.S. with Mom.”

Clay’s expression grows somber.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

I nod and press on. I cannot linger here.

“I really wanted to speak to you about what you saw in Kabul while you were there. I read your book. The conversation at the bookstore got a bit sidetracked.”

“If I remember correctly, you had a lot to do with us getting sidetracked.”

“Well, you know what they say. Keep biting your tongue and one day you won’t have one,” I say.

“Is that quotable medical advice?”

Mom takes a long, slow sip of her coffee. Her eyes twinkle over the rim of her mug.

I rest my elbows on the table and make sure Clay sees I’m completely serious.

“I wanted to ask you about the antiquities and the museum. With the Taliban still lurking and all that’s happening, did it feel like the collections were safe there?”

“They were safer than they had been in the past,” Clay offers, qualifying his comments. “Would they be safer in Midtown Manhattan or the Louvre? Maybe. But that’s not where they belong. Can I ask what’s inspired your interest in the returning of the antiquities?”

I don’t immediately answer, and this time Mom does not step in. Clay leans back in his chair and tries a different approach.