“What do you mean by that? We have a plan already. Indigo and Patricia are our plan.”

Antonia shook her head.

“It’s not safe. They have two other passengers I’ve not vetted. Hell, I haven’t even properly vetted those two. I haven’t seen their car. What if it stalls on the road?”

“Speaking of stalling,” Tilly grumbled.

Antonia’s eyes lighted on me like a butterfly on a bloom.

Antonia reminded me of my father, steadfast and diligent. I wondered if Antonia’s cautious nature would keep us in this apartment a bit too long. I thought of Faheem hiding in plain view, his hands over his eyes. I was not a child. I knew this apartment wouldn’t cloak my existence forever.

Tilly stirred a spoonful of instant coffee into a cup of boiling water and sat down with her novel. She watched as Antonia scribbled in her notebook and made calls from the rooftop.

“Why can’t you have a boyfriend in the CIA?” Tilly asked under her breath.

That evening I listened to the slow song of the azaan and tried my best to feel inspired. The muezzin’s voice seemed more beseeching than coaxing, a mournful melody. Though I didn’t rise, I cupped my hands together under the blanket and prayed for God to keep me safe, to grant my family entry to the gardens of heaven, and to forgive me for resenting Him as much as I did.

If faith was a life raft, mine was riddled with holes.

I had nearly fallen asleep when I heard their hushed voices.

“Can you even imagine what will happen if people find out an American from the embassy snuck an Afghan girl out of the country with a couple of hippies? Let me work out a better way.”

“Please don’t hate the idea because it’s mine, Nia,” Tilly said. She sounded nothing like the woman who had danced, with rolling hips, across the rooftop or the woman who belted out songs from musicals. Tilly sounded more like the woman she was when her lipstick had faded, when she slept with her mouth half open, or when the lift of her leafy cigarettes had spun its way out of her bloodstream. She was a different woman at night, when the lavender scent of her perfume dissipated, when she smelled elemental and organic, like the musk of fallen leaves.

“Mom, this isn’t about me or you. It’s about her,” Antonia insisted.

“Maybe that’s true,” Tilly said, sounding exhausted and unsure. “But I also know you don’t trust my judgment. And I can’t blame you for that. If I thought apologizing would do any good—”

Tilly’s voice broke.

“I can’t do this now, Mom,” Antonia said, a hitch in her voice. “We can’t do this now. Let’s take care of this girl and leave that one be. We’re fine, I promise.”