“Who . . . who . . .” I stumble as I begin to make sense of his face. I am looking at pieces of the past—the heavy-lidded eyes of a dead president, the dimpled chin of my best friend. I know before he says his name that I am as close as I can be to the halcyon days of my childhood, that I am standing before my co-conspirator and playmate Rostam.

“You’re here,” I say stupidly. I touch his forearm, and his eyebrows knit together. “How is this possible? You were in Arg that day!”

“As were you,” he says, his voice tender. He looks older than he should, ragged as a wanderer. I want to embrace him but hesitate. Though I know him, we are far from the sanctuary of childhood.

“And Neelab?” I ask, hoping with every fiber of my being.

He shakes his head, and I am crushed anew.

When Mom and Clay approach, Rostam is just beginning to tell his story. They both look concerned about the man standing so close to me that passersby take notice. Clay opens his mouth to say something but stops when he hears the crack in Rostam’s voice.

“I never thought I’d see you again,” he says. “How did you escape?”

We return to that day like warriors telling stories around a fire. I tell him how I slipped out of the bedroom to stare at the stars. I tell him about the soldier and the basement and two American women.

“We drove across the border,” I say, looking over at Mom. “And then went to America. I used my dead sister’s birth certificate to gain citizenship. She raised me.”

I tell Mom and Clay that Rostam was a dear childhood friend and the grandson of President Daoud. They understand then, as best they can, what it means for us to see each other after so many years have passed.

Rostam and I return to the night of the coup and fill in the missing details.

Rostam and his family had been sequestered for hours. He and his grandparents, uncles, aunts, and cousins had played cards to pass the time. The children felt like they had stepped into a movie, something fictional and exciting.

That ended when shots broke out—first the indiscriminate strafing from above and then the deeply personal gunshots.

The family struggled with what to do. Someone wanted to raise a white flag. His grandfather and grandmother refused to leave, but urged the others to flee with the children. Cars had circled around to the palace entrance, ready to take them into the countryside.

It was too late.