Shair spun the steering wheel. His driving was erratic. I stayed close to the passenger door and waited for the right moment to throw myself from the car. He made a hard left and circled through one of the city’s roundabouts, stopping the car beneath a waving PDPA banner.

He glared at me and I understood. It didn’t matter how many buildings stood unharmed. It didn’t matter that a hole had not opened in the earth or sky. Everything had changed. Everyone had changed.

Shair grabbed me by the nape of my neck and pulled my head toward the windshield, forcing me to look outside. He jabbed at the glass, smudging it with fingerprints.

“Anyone you thought was your friend or family before will slam their door in your face or risk the same happening to them. Your people are gone. Your Kabul is gone.”

His rage swelled and swelled until it spilled out the lowered windows and swirled around the car like a sandstorm. He took the gun out from under his leg and held it loosely between his hands. The air grew thin, as if the oxygen had been siphoned out of the car.

“Your Kabul is gone,” he repeated.

Then, Shair crumpled. He buried his face in his hands. The vanishing of the lion terrified me more than his anger. I knew I had to get out. I pulled on the door handle, but it was locked. I pounded on the glass and rattled the handle, desperate to escape before Shair did whatever it was he had planned for tonight.

“Child,” he said mournfully. “I have no choice. I never did.”

Chapter 10

Shair didn’t kill me. Instead, he drove me to the far end of Chicken Street, where we sat in his car, the engine and lights shut off. I’d been in many of these shops with my mother but had never seen them dark and shuttered. When I peeled the tape from my mouth, Shair did not protest. He leaned back in his seat, and we sat in silence until an hour passed and he sat up sharply.

“Get out,” he said, opening his own door and coming around to my side. I followed him out of the car to a dark niche between two shops.

At the sound of footsteps, Shair poked his head out. He hissed at me to keep my back pressed against the wall. Conscious of the revolver in his hand, I obeyed.

“What are we doing here?” I asked, growing impatient enough to test him.

Shair did not answer.

When I thought my legs might give out, he pulled at me.

“Walk behind me,” he growled. He kept a hand on the sleeve of my shirt. I considered breaking away but was duly terrified of being stopped by a bullet in my back. His pace was brisk. We were closing in on two women a few meters ahead of us.