“I’ll go to the embassy,” she begins. During our first visit there, she told a small circle of Carla’s colleagues that she’d met most of the warlords and top-billed leaders of the mujahideen. They’d been firebrands at the local colleges while Mom was stationed in Kabul. Carla has asked Mom to come back and brief the team on what she remembers, since a handful of those men had returned to Kabul after years abroad. “I’m sure they’re just indulging an old-timer. I can’t be helpful now except to tell them not to make the same mistakes we made.”

Her comment surprises me. Not wanting to see her and Clay embroiled in another long conversation about what mistakes she means, I review my plan for this morning.

“And I’m headed to the museum,” I say, rising from my seat. Clay brushes crumbs from his lap and takes one last sip of water before joining me.

We part ways in front of the hotel. Our taxi heads south while Mom’s goes east, toward the green zone. Clay sits in the backseat with me. I am exquisitely aware of the few centimeters of backseat between us. We are in Afghanistan and subject to judgmental eyes, but that’s not the only reason.

“You should write about the remains that were found,” I tell him. The cab rolls in and out of a deep pothole, jostling us in our seats. I recheck my seat belt and motion for Clay to buckle his. “They’re holding back now, but they’re going to have to go public with it soon. He was the president.”

Clay grimaces.

“I don’t know,” he says.

“It’s a worthy story,” I insist.

“No question,” he replies. He turns and looks straight into my eyes, holding my gaze steadily despite the uneven road. “But this story is too close to you, Aryana.”

“It was the beginning of everything, Clay. People need to know how we got to all of this,” I say, waving at the world outside. “You see that. I know you see it.”

“It’s too close to you,” he repeats. “I came to write about the museum, the war. Not you.”

“You can write about both. You don’t have to make a choice,” I insist.

In the square set of his jaw, I see his resolve.

“Every article I write is a deliberate choice, Aryana. I go through a list of questions before I pick up my pen. Is it important enough to me? To other people? Can I do the story justice? Will I hurt anyone in telling this story? Will I find something I won’t want to write about?”

I rest my forehead against the car window and take in the neighborhood, an adobe relief.