Antonia paced the apartment wearing a button-down shirt with a ruffled collar, her skirt billowing with every turn. The skirt was so long that it gave the impression she was floating.

“I just can’t believe you would do something so . . . so . . . dangerous. Anything could have happened to you out there!”

“I should have stayed,” Tilly muttered, wiggling out of her vest. A button popped and skittered across the floor. Tilly didn’t bother to reach for it, tossing her vest onto the coffee table. “Why didn’t I stay?”

The success of my mission did little to comfort them.

They’d stared as I’d spread the documents across the living room table like a hand of cards—my sister’s American birth certificate, my Afghan birth certificate, and Faheem’s as well, my mother’s high school diploma, and the deed to the home in my father’s name.

The photographs told the story of us. My mother in a white veil, her lips painted a deep red, her eyes bashful and lowered. In another photo, my father balanced Faheem on one knee while I planted a kiss on top of my brother’s head. I could still feel his feathery baby hair tickling my lips. My grandmother perched proudly on a chair on a patch of grass, with my mother sitting at her feet, her legs tucked under her and her eyes hidden behind round sunglasses. She wore a summery dress with capped sleeves and a loose bow at the collar.

It hurt to look at them. It hurt more to look away.

“You could have been taken. You might have been seen,” Antonia said, rising out of her seat and moving to the window. She pulled the curtain back and looked both ways down the street.

“I am careful. No person follow me.”

“Did you speak with anyone?” Antonia asked.

When I did not answer immediately, Antonia sat in front of me.

“Tell me,” she said gravely.

I recounted the exchange with the police officer, confirming that he’d not asked my name or followed me back to the apartment. I had passed undetected, careful to make an extra loop before walking down Chicken Street just to be sure no one had tracked my steps.

“You are a clever fox!” Tilly exclaimed.

Antonia shook her head, then reached for Aryana’s birth certificate, handling the paper with the kind of care reserved for artifacts.

In the morning, I changed into a pair of Levi’s jeans, a red pullover, and a navy blue baseball cap.

“What do you think?” Nia asked her mother.

“Aren’t you going to draw some stars and stripes on her?” Tilly asked.

Antonia ignored her.

“I think it works. Now, I just need a few more days and I think I’ll have a plan for how we leave.”

Tilly looked at her daughter, cockeyed.