I saw hesitation in my father, and it made him almost unrecognizable. He cupped his hand around his forehead as if his thoughts might otherwise swirl out of his skull. He shook his head and knelt in front of us.

“We will find a peaceful end to this situation. We must.”

My mother groaned softly, for she knew what that meant. Any and all talks happened with my father’s mediation.

Not long after Father left our room, I heard a horrific sound. The sky threatened to split as jets flew low over the palace, spraying artillery on the grounds. I couldn’t hear my own shrieks through the explosions. We stayed put, too nervous to move. My father returned to us, whispering to my mother that a faction of the army had indeed turned on the president.

The conversations I’d overheard in the last two weeks echoed in my head. Grievances and doubts abounded, from the families of the political prisoners to the university students. Some thought President Daoud’s visit to the United States had turned him into a pawn of the Americans. Others demanded that he take an even stronger stand against Moscow. And away from the stoic first lady’s ears, women debated whether the president had too much pride to see the regime through the unrest.

Boba had spoken sharply with President Daoud.

You won’t fix this problem by culling dissidents, he had warned. The Americans hold our right hand, the Soviets our left. Mark my words, neither will let go of its grip even if they see us torn to shreds.

Kaka Daoud, Boba, and the circle of advisers stayed locked in a wood-paneled conference room. The kitchen was deserted, though I doubt anyone had much of an appetite anyway. Day stretched into night. Boba lumbered back to our room at a late hour, his eyes bloodshot. He smelled of tea, alcohol, and cigarette smoke.

“Boba, are they going to hurt us?” I asked, doing my best not to cry. I could not stop my chin from quivering.

“No, no, my darling girl,” Boba replied, his voice a low rasp. “They are our own people. Just as quickly as they turned left, they can turn right. All will be fine.”

My mother’s eyeliner smudged as she wiped away tears before they reached her cheeks. I caught her mouthing prayers, her knuckles blanched as she held my father’s hand. We remained knotted together in one small room. Terrified and exhausted, the dozens of people contained in the palace by mutinous soldiers drifted to sleep in tufted chairs, in four-poster beds, and with their backs up against embossed wallpaper.

I looked for small signs that we were not facing the end of the world, holding on tight to my freshly spun theory that if the sun and moon kept their rituals, my world would remain intact.