The road ahead snaked between mountains, like a necklace disappearing into a bosom. Tilly lifted her hand and squinted against the sun’s glare. I closed my eyes, my eyelids transforming the sunlight into a thousand colors, bursting and flashing like fireworks only I could see. I wondered how many times my father had traveled this road without us, accompanying President Daoud Khan or other senior cabinet members on official trips. He’d always brought back treats from his travels. I may not have been able to recognize the cities by sight, but knew them by taste. Moscow was bits of wafer or pralines hidden in small cocoa bricks. Paghman, with its crisp mountain water, tasted like snowflakes on my tongue. Kandahar popped sweetly between my teeth, releasing the juice of pomegranates. Jalalabad made my cheeks pucker with its tart oranges. My mother would slice the rinds into strands, steaming them into a yellow rice with bright green pistachios and moon-white almond slivers.

I pictured my mother’s back over the stove, steam floating to her face as she lifted the pot’s cover. It was all so vivid, so real. I felt the familiar lump in my throat again.

“My goodness,” Tilly exclaimed. “We couldn’t possibly be . . . Are we taking that road?”

I didn’t have to look to know what had caused her alarm. The tortuous road we were on, an asphalt gift from the West German government, was not for the faint of heart.

On our right was the jagged face of the mountain, its peak hidden from view. Boulders perched precariously on the mountain’s visage, freckled with orange wildflowers and patches of yellow-green grasses. On our left was a drop so sheer it might have been a fall off the far edge of the earth. Cars moved in both directions on this winding road, signaling one another with a wave or a honk of the horn.

A dark shape crossed the sky, flapped twice, and swooped over the van. I couldn’t tell if it was a buzzard or an eagle or if a piece of the mountain had broken off and the great sky had conspired to keep it from falling.

The ascent sent a tickle through the passengers. Patricia knelt on her seat, her face pressed against the glass. The air thinned. I felt the rev of the engine through my feet. Indigo’s friend reached over and turned up the volume on the radio. The singer was a man, his voice a high-pitched daydream. The overlanders joined the chorus, which was the one line of the song I could make out.

Ohhhh, I just want to be your everything!

“Slow down, babe,” Patricia cajoled. “This road is pretty wild.”

“I’m gonna get us there.”

Indigo’s eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. Patricia must have noticed too. Her hand went to Indigo’s shoulder and stayed there as she whispered into his ear.