“If you haven’t,” he said in that condescending tone adults use to make children see the wrong of their ways, “then why make your poor mother run after you like that?”

The door of our home opened then, and another man emerged. From the epaulets on his shoulders and the cap on his head, I knew this was someone of rank, an officer. He cleared his throat. The soldier crouched before me whirled around to face his superior.

My breath caught in my throat. I recognized the man, a general I’d seen in my father’s company. I hid my face in Antonia’s chadori. Her arms circled tightly around me.

“This is not playtime,” he snapped at the soldier.

“Forgive me, sir, but I was not—”

“Let’s go!” The general commanded the soldier to go to the car. I held my breath, waiting for him to recognize me. Antonia, without loosening her hold on me, whirled around and started to march us back toward the corner of the street. Her chadori swung wide enough to veil my terror-stricken face.

The car door closed and the engine grumbled to life. We kept walking, Antonia maintaining an even pace. I heard the motor approach us and sensed the car slowing down.

“Khanum, one moment,” the general said, calling on Antonia to pause. As I stood between Antonia and the privacy walls of the homes, I regretted that I’d ever left her Chicken Street apartment. “Do you live on this street?”

Antonia shook her head slowly and then took another step forward.

“Then what are you doing here?” he asked, enunciating his words so there was no chance for us to misunderstand.

If Boba were alive, I thought to myself, he would be demanding you answer that very same question.

But I’d gotten us into this mess, and I had to get us out.

“My mother is a midwife. She was called upon to visit a woman in need,” I said, keeping myself behind the drape of Antonia’s chadori.

My heart beat a thousand times before he spoke again.

“You are too young to be seeing new life enter this world.”

“If I am not too young to witness death, then surely I am not too young to witness life.” The words were out of my mouth before I could talk sense into myself. Antonia’s hand squeezed mine tightly, in panic or anger.

“So you have witnessed the fragility of life. Did it not frighten you to come close to marg?” the general asked, his arm resting on the open window of the car door.

It was an odd time for my mind to realize that the name of the palace, Arg, rhymed with the Dari word for death, marg. How convenient, I thought, for poets who might one day pen a verse about the night the blood of patriots soaked the carpets and splattered the halls of the citadel.