In the end, in a decision made by no one person, the back of the van was opened. Bags were removed and I was instructed to lie down in the trunk, the narrow space behind the last row of seats. I had to steady my breathing going in, as I was reminded of being shoved into the back of Shair’s car. We were just a small stretch of road away from the border. Tilly stroked my head and kissed my cheek before they buried me under bags.

“This just feels a little crazy,” the man said to Indigo.

“It won’t be for more than a few minutes. What’s crazy is that a piece of paper could be so important.”

“If we end up in an Afghan prison . . .”

“It’ll be a step up from your apartment back home,” Indigo said, finishing his friend’s sentence.

A nervous snort. A throat cleared. I lay curled on my side, feeling every bump in the road. After a few moments, the car slowed and I heard the radio turn on. Indigo greeted someone, his voice bright as the Jalalabad sun.

I listened carefully and tried to imagine what was happening. I heard no shouting or panic. Footsteps moved around the car, approaching the trunk door. I held my breath, praying my legs or head were not visible between the duffel bags and backpacks.

“Hey, hey, American!” an accented voice called out. My mind flashed with visions of palace guards, uniforms that belied allegiance.

There were two loud thumps against the back of the van. Indigo shouted something.

If I had to run, I would run. If I had to fight, I would fight. The drum in my chest beat insistently. My head twirled with a strange kind of vertigo, as if I were falling from the sky.

Chapter 22

“Oh, Indigo. You look like you’re going to lose your lunch,” Tilly chided, giving his shoulder a squeeze. “Did you think we wouldn’t make it into Pakistan?”

The overlanders looked exhausted, as if the five hours we’d spent together since Kabul had been more like five years.

In truth, it was the five minutes we’d spent at the border that had really sapped their strength. I’d heard Tilly at the rear of the van talking about needing some fresh air. She described the van careening into the side of the mountain. I thought I heard a tremble in her voice. Her voice was so close, inches away. She said she had a terrible headache and hoped to see a doctor as soon as they crossed into Pakistan.

How kind of you, she’d said. How did you know I was thirsty?

I could imagine the soldiers looking at her silver hair, the Band-Aid on her forehead. Any self-respecting Afghan man wouldn’t keep a withering elder on her feet for long or badger her with questions. Even I wanted to offer her a chair.