Tilly, leaning against the mountainside, swore she was fine. She let Patricia’s friend press a tissue to her forehead, and the bleeding stopped within a few minutes. She puffed out her cheeks and rolled her eyes, giving me a squeeze when it did not elicit a laugh from me.

“I’m fine now, really.”

The wound looked ugly, but far from fatal. Someone pulled a bandage out of a backpack and hid the gash under it. I wondered if it would need stitches or antibiotics. I didn’t want her head to look like my foot.

Indigo, Patricia, and their friends examined the front of the van and decided its injuries were not fatal either. One headlight had shattered, but it was still daylight and the other would be enough to light the road at night. The hood of the van had tented in slightly, making it impossible to open. But the engine rumbled to life, much to Indigo’s relief. Cars continued to come blazing along the road, and Indigo signaled everyone to get back into the van.

“We’re like bowling pins out here,” he said, trying to make light of the situation. No one laughed, not even nervously.

We continued our journey without music, without much talking. The van and the explorers within it had been jolted, the chemistry altered.

We emerged from the mountain pass and saw the sprawling city of Jalalabad stretch out before us. I did not know these streets or buildings. I had only experienced this city as a carefree child, following my parents.

The city was home to a few points of interest that my father had pointed out. Mausoleums of kings, a Hindu temple, and a medical school that one of my father’s cousins had attended. My father wanted me to become a doctor too and even used my interest in the stars to convince me medicine was my destiny.

I’ve told you about Ibn Sina, the astronomer. He was also the father of modern medicine. From here to Europe, physicians used his text to treat disease and save lives.

He was a genius, Padar. My teachers have assured me I am not.

Why do you need teachers to tell you what you are? Have I not told you about the falling girl?

Tell me again, I had insisted, because his explanations were adventures.

If Ibn Sina were here, he would tell you to imagine yourself as a falling girl. You are suspended in air, clouds so thick you cannot see. Your limbs are spread wide and touch no surface. Nothing reaches you. Nothing touches you. And yet you know you exist. How is that possible?