But I’ve never believed I could have the bewildering passion of Rudabeh and Zal—one of the many things I lost in the fire. It is a petty thing to lament now, especially as I stand within kilometers of where I lost everyone.

Mom may be right about forgiving myself, but she does not know the abyss I see when I look inward. What if I forgive myself and nothing changes?

Chapter 57

The driver still hasn’t told us where we are headed. We’re stuck in traffic, feeling directionless. I scan the cars around us and the pedestrians along the road looking for the man I saw last night. I don’t see anyone of the same height and build, no one with a khaki-colored jacket like his.

I haven’t said anything about him to Clay or Mom. I don’t want anyone to limit my movements or try to cut this trip short—not when I’m so close.

Right after the coup, I felt like all of Kabul was hunting me, but so much time has passed since then and so much has happened in those years that I can’t possibly be of any interest. On the other hand, I’ve read that kidnappers prowl the country for foreigners in hopes of a hefty ransom. Judging by the comments I overhear, I know it’s no secret I’ve come from abroad. Maybe she’s come to take a soldier back home, one woman had muttered to her friend as I walked past.

My stomach growls. I didn’t have much of an appetite this morning and didn’t eat more than a square of toast.

“Clay, is this the block you were talking about?” Mom asks. As we got dressed this morning, she told me she and Clay ended up talking late into the night. Their conversation drifted from Afghan history to Beatles albums and the best way to brew a cup of coffee. Clay is interested in trying the coffee sock technique Mom learned in Malaysia. They seem downright chummy this morning.

“Yup, this is the one,” Clay says. Holding his cell phone just below the car window, he snaps a photo. We are driving past a row of soaring mansions with elaborate balustrades, gilded columns, and second and third floors boasting wide balconies. “You know those pictures of drug kingpins wearing a dozen thick gold chains around their neck? You see that same flash in home construction too. It’s called narcotecture.”

“These are criminally ugly,” Mom comments.

I catch the driver looking back in the rearview mirror. When our eyes meet, he glances at his cell phone. I wonder if we’ve been too trusting in getting into this car, then chide myself for being so paranoid.

“Agha,” I ask, trying to sound casual, “we will need to stop along the way to pick up a couple of bottles of juice. We didn’t have much breakfast.”