Kabul grew small as we rolled south, down a road I’d traveled with my family. We were joined by another couple. They were all overlanders, as I later learned they were called—Americans and Europeans trekking along a meandering trail from Turkey to as far as Goa, in western India. They stopped in Iran, Lebanon, Afghanistan, and Kashmir along the way, dipping into the local culture and the local weed. They picnicked by lakes and bought embroidered scarves to carry back home. They haggled halfheartedly, amusing artisans and shop owners.

The other couple in the van knew nothing about my situation and thought I was Tilly’s grandchild, half-Afghan and half-American and very wary of strangers. We were on our way to Islamabad, Tilly said, because she was in urgent need of specialized medical care for a blood disease. I thought it was a brilliant cover story. Between Tilly’s bony wrists and my honey-colored hair and green-speckled eyes, we each looked our parts.

Patricia chatted with the other woman, whose hair and eyes made me wonder if she’d been painted by the same palate of colors as the sky. Both women looked a few years younger than Antonia, but that might have been because they carried backpacks instead of dossiers. Indigo sat in the driver’s seat, while a man with a half-folded map and a small booklet on his lap sat in the passenger seat, his right foot resting on the dashboard.

“Map, check. Eastern Bound, check,” he said, flapping the two together.

“Ah, the infamous guidebook!” Tilly asked. “May I see it?”

“Sure,” he said, reaching over the seat. “Worth every penny. Covers the trail from Istanbul to Kathmandu. Told us to stuff ourselves in Turkey and not expect good food again until we reached Kabul. That was pretty good advice. What do you say, friends?”

“My God, that bathhouse in Turkey!” Patricia’s friend groaned. “The harem? What was it called?”

“Hamam!” Patricia laughed. “I don’t think these people have public harems!”

“Did you see concubines there?” Tilly asked. “I’ve always wondered what it might be like to be a concubine.”

“You haven’t lived,” the woman said, “until you’ve had a decade’s worth of dead skin scrubbed off you by an enormous woman wearing red underwear.”

“You loved it. You told me it was the best birthday gift you’ve ever gotten,” her boyfriend insisted.

“I’ve thought very seriously about leaving you for that woman,” she said, eyes wide and devilish.

Tilly took the booklet from him and began to flip through it. I looked over her shoulder, catching bits and pieces. Indigo’s friend lit a cigarette with the car’s lighter and slipped a cassette into the player. Tilly started to hum and sway.