“Don’t hurt them,” I whispered to him. “Please!”

The women stood in front of a door, one reaching into her purse. As we approached, she whirled around.

“Salaam, who are you?” she said, loudly enough that a sleeping stray yelped in protest. She had stepped, protectively, in front of the other woman. She clenched her right hand in a fist with keys pointing out from between her fingers like tiny blades.

From behind Shair, I examined the two of them. The one who had turned her hand into a claw appeared close in age to my mother. The woman behind her was a good bit older, with thick wooden bangles that clacked on her thin wrist. She looked confused until her gaze fell upon the revolver Shair held at his side.

“What do you think you’re doing?” the older woman shouted in English, stepping between the younger woman and Shair. They hadn’t even noticed me.

“Mother, let me handle this,” the other woman said, her voice controlled and firm. She never took her eyes off Shair’s face, not even when she pulled her mother back by her sleeve.

Shair looked from one to the other, then took a single step to his left. The women’s eyes fell on me.

“You help girl,” Shair said in halting English. “Kabul dangerous.”

He was going to leave me with them. Shair disappeared into the night, his footfalls like raindrops on a roof.

You help girl. Kabul dangerous.

Their eyes rolled over me slowly, as if there were some message to decipher in the gray T-shirt and trousers I was wearing, a boy’s outfit that hung loosely on my frame. I didn’t realize my hands were balled into fists until I saw their eyes flicker at them. Still, I kept them tight and ready.

“Wait! Who are you? Is this your daughter?” The younger woman whispered loudly down the street. But Shair had disappeared into the dark, like a candle flame extinguished between two fingers. I heard the familiar sound of his car rumbling to life one street over.

Daughter. Before our tutor, my father had taught me the English words for family members, marveling at how close their words were to ours. Daughter—dokhtar. Mother—madar. Father—padar. Brother—braadar. In the most precious names, he said, the differences between East and West dissolved.

“Isn’t that bizarre!” the older woman said. “He didn’t even take our handbags!”

They looked from me to the darkness as if they weren’t sure what else might emerge from the night.

“Hello,” the younger woman said to me in English. She spoke cautiously. “My name is Antonia. What is your name?”

I did not answer.