“There were many boots bloodied at Arg,” I insist. “Surely someone has been willing to come forward and break his silence.”

My voice rings with desperation. I fight to regain control.

The two soldiers look at the one who seems to be the superior of this trio.

“The investigation is ongoing,” he says with an air of authority. “We are not yet confirming the identities of the bodies we have found.”

“But you believe them to be the bodies of those killed in Arg?” I demand, a half-question, half-statement.

“You know, not everyone in Arg was killed that night. Some were brought to this prison and later exiled. The shah of Iran flew them to Europe. Perhaps your family has been living in exile?”

Having seen what I saw that night, I did not believe this. I’d read it online but saw no pictures to prove it had happened. Clay and Mom watch my face intently, struggling to track the conversation. They see my head drop, as if pulled to the ground by a force stronger than gravity. Finally, I muster the strength to continue.

“They were not exiled,” I say softly. “They were not even given the mercy of prison. I am looking only for their bodies, brother. I was witness to their martyrdom.”

Shahid. Witness.

Shaheed. Martyr.

So close. We were so close.

His expression softens.

“May their souls rest in heaven,” he says, a small act of grace by a man who has likely seen little of it in his lifetime. I watch him reach for the shoebox on the desk.

“What I am about to tell you is not information for the public. I know your friend here is a journalist, but this is strictly confidential. Is that understood?”

“Absolutely,” I say, looking at Clay and Mom and nodding. They follow my lead, sensing the direction of the conversation. I look at Clay’s lap pointedly. He puts his pen down, closes his notebook, and sits back in his chair.

“We received word about the location of the bodies. We began digging. We found sixteen sets of remains and are currently working on confirming their identities.”

“You’ve found them,” I say. “They must be among the sixteen.”

The soldier shakes his head.

“Sister, we believe the bodies we’ve found are all members of Daoud Khan’s family.”

“How can you know?”

He opens the shoebox and pulls out a clipped stack of photographs. He spreads the pictures across the table. I see a blue tarp and realize I’m looking at the site of the remains they found. In another photograph, small trinkets are arranged beside human remains and small placards. Among the skeletons, he explains, they had found clues left behind after decomposition. While I cannot read the names of the cards because my eyes have blurred, I can see metal suspender clips, a small golden Qur’an, and an orthopedic boot.