Over breakfast, we make an ambitious list of places we want to see, pushpins on my personal map of Kabul. Clay takes notes, his gray eyes gauging and designing. We head to the lobby, where the hotel doorman signals us over and leads us out the doors to meet our escort. Leaving the hotel is easy. There are no X-rays or pat-downs for those headed into the city.

Waleed has arrived ahead of schedule, a sign that he’s been working with foreigners. He is polite, articulate. In a Kabul full of Western contractors, aid workers, journalists, and military personnel, he has found his niche.

He could be anywhere between twenty-five and forty years old. Age is hard to guess since clocks and hearts seem to tick faster here, where lives are lived in urgency. He wears jeans and a pressed shirt, bowing forward as he shakes our hands. He has a fully charged mobile phone and a solid enough command of English that he can even crack some jokes.

“Good morning, friends. Mrs. Shephard and Dr. Shephard. Mr. Porter says this is not your first visit, so I will not say welcome. I will say welcome back to Kabul.”

“We’re happy to meet you,” Mom says graciously. I can see the woman she was in her younger years, marching into unknown territory armed with diplomacy, an earnestness in her interactions with people, and a rooted belief that there is good in others. Were it not for me, Mom probably would have stayed in Afghanistan until the embassy shut its doors and called every last person home.

Waleed’s eyes linger on my Eastern features, my Western dress. He looks at the three of us, and I can guess at the assumptions he is making about our relationships.

“Sir,” Waleed says, turning to Clay, “where would you like to take these ladies today?”

I instinctively take a step forward, as if I’m coming out from behind a curtain to claim my spot on the stage.

“Waleed-jan, I was born in Kabul, but I’ve not been back here since before the Russians invaded. Let’s start with a drive past Polytechnic University. It’s closer than anything else.”

He blinks back his surprise.

“Yes, Doctor,” Waleed says, turning on his heel and extending his arm to invite us to follow. He pauses for a beat before he continues. “Doctor-sahib, you remind me of my dear sister. She is also a doctor, in the very busy maternity hospital. She would be very happy to meet you.”

The pride in his eyes disarms me.

Waleed’s Toyota is in decent shape. There is a bit of wear and tear on the body, but it seems reliable enough. He raises a hand to the armed security guard as he pulls away from the hotel.

“I will show you as much as I can,” Waleed says. “Kabul is a city of high walls but higher flags.”