“And if it doesn’t pass muster, then I don’t do it. Because there are enough journalists swooping in here claiming they ‘discovered’ something that’s been here forever. Or writing up poverty porn to get a byline.”

Neither of us says another word until we pull up to the gates of the two-story museum, an elegant building of gray stucco and white architectural detail. The lawn in front, with its stone pathways and petite trees, is reminiscent of an English garden or a private school. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear a bell toll and see a dozen boys in pressed uniforms come sauntering out the front door.

In stark contrast to the museum, the guards’ station is a wooden shack with an uneven roof. Two men emerge wearing pigeon-colored uniforms. One has a rifle at his side.

“Do you think they’re loaded?” I ask.

“It’s never occurred to me that they might not be,” Clay admits.

We walk through the gates topped with concertina wire. Through the front door, we enter the spacious atrium with freshly painted walls and bright lights. A man wearing a charcoal-colored turban and white tunic and pantaloons regards us with faint interest. He pauses in his polishing of a glass placard as we pass by, and I read the inscription: A nation stays alive when its culture stays alive.

He collects our admission fee and motions for us to proceed. Our footsteps pad softly against the tile floor. As far as I can tell, Clay and I are the only visitors here. Inside the purse I hold close to my side is the coveted ring that has traveled to the other side of the world and back again. This museum is a far cry from the ones I’ve visited in Europe or back home in New York City. I’m feeling torn.

I examine each room with a discerning eye, looking for signs to guide my decision. We are in a long, light-filled room looking at a glazed bowl painted with lapis pigments when we hear the clack of shoes echoing in the hall.

“Madam. Sir. Welcome.” A bespectacled man with a thick thatch of hair crosses the room and greets us with a respectful bow. His face is young, and his pants and jacket are a size too big, as if he’s dressed in hand-me-downs. “I am Nasrat, the head of the museum. Thank you for coming.”

We exchange a few pleasantries with Nasrat and discover that he has personally curated the exhibits. He asks about our work and reason for being in Kabul. I tell him I’m a physician but here with Clay for research. My vague explanation doesn’t trouble him. He walks with us, speaking breezily of arranging rooms while respecting chronology.