“I beg your pardon. Freedom to hear speech,” Tilly retorted.

They entered the living room, which seemed to shrink when they were both in it. This mother and daughter couldn’t even move around the apartment without bumping into each other. My eyelids were heavy and thoughts slow. I’d not slept much the last two nights, and what had started as an itch on my foot had turned into a dull throbbing.

Tilly noticed me fidgeting and sat beside me on the sofa.

“Her foot doesn’t look good,” Tilly said, inspecting my wound with her hands clasped behind her back.

That morning I’d seen yellow pus oozing from the wound. The skin around it had grown hot and tender. Nia came to look for herself and immediately sat down.

“Damn,” Nia sighed. “It’s infected. She needs antibiotics.”

“Can’t you take her to a hospital?”

“No,” I said, my head filled with Shair’s warnings that nowhere in Kabul was safe for me anymore. “No hospital!”

Antonia chewed her lip.

“Come on, honey. You know all the important people in town. The minister of this and the new head of that. You must know a doctor who can see her,” Tilly coaxed.

I looked up, alarmed.

Which important people in town did Antonia know? And why was she meeting with the new regime? Even Afghan schoolchildren knew foreign spies wandered among us, passing themselves off as businessmen or teachers in order to gather information for their colonizing governments. I had a terrible thought then. What if Nia was a spy? What if they were both spies?

What did they want from me? My heart pounded. I rose, wincing as my right foot touched the ground, and considered running down the steps and asking for help from the bakery owner downstairs. I could slip out the door right now and head into the street, or I could make a run for the rooftop. Neither seemed like a viable path to safety. Feeling defenseless, I hopped and slid to the kitchen and slowly opened drawer after drawer until I found a paring knife. I spun around to see Antonia staring at me.

“Sweetheart, what are you doing with that knife?” she asked.

What was I doing with the knife?

I started to set the knife down but stopped when I saw her eyes dart over to the opposite counter. Was she looking for a bigger knife? Had I been duped by them?

“Please, sit down. Let’s talk,” Antonia said.

“What are you two—” Tilly said, appearing in the doorway of the kitchen. She froze when she saw the blade in my hand. “Oh, holy hell. Put the knife down unless you’re planning on attacking an orange.”

“Why you take me?” I asked. “Are you jasoos?”