Police officers with bright badges stood on the curb just outside the embassy and watched as we approached. I had to will my feet to move toward them, remind myself that I was far from Kabul. I might as well have been crossing a raging river. Every step felt treacherous.

We saw the police officer’s mouth move. His words melted into the drone of traffic behind us. I dared not look him in the eye. I held on tightly to Tilly and kept my eye on the flurry of people moving in all directions.

Tilly exchanged a few words with them and showed her passport. In a moment, we passed through the front gates and were escorted by a police officer into a brick building. Inside, three soldiers stood on guard with rifles on their shoulders, their eyes hidden behind sunglasses. I could tell from their faces and the flags stitched onto their uniforms that they were Americans. A soldier sitting behind a desk took Tilly’s passport and my sister’s birth certificate and examined them front and back. Then he nodded at the bandage on Tilly’s forehead.

“Ma’am, have you had that looked at?” he asked.

“This is a scratch. We have more urgent matters to deal with,” Tilly announced. “My daughter, Antonia Shephard, is a Foreign Service officer at the Kabul embassy. She’s contacted some folks here about our predicament. We need some help with documentation.”

The soldier considered her for a moment and made a phone call before walking us down a long hallway. He carried Tilly’s bag for her while I kept mine slung over my shoulder, the bulk of it pressed against my belly. We were led into another room, a sparse office with a desk and two chairs. Tilly pulled a packet of crackers out of her bag, and though I had no appetite, I ate them to quell my roiling stomach. Being inside a government building in plain view had me rattled.

“They’re calling Antonia,” she whispered in my ear. “She’ll sort it all out.”

I watched faces, too nervous to understand the English. It felt like they were talking at double speed, and most of it flew over my head. A woman set a small glass bottle of apple juice in front of me and offered Tilly a fresh bandage. Tilly thanked her but, when she had gone, muttered that we had “bigger fish to fry.”

“Fish?” I whispered, puzzled. But Tilly’s attention was on the man who had just entered the office, his hand extended. He had wavy brown hair and square-framed glasses. Tilly shook his hand.

“Good to meet you,” she said. “I hope they’ve briefed you on our passport situation already. Do you know my daughter, Antonia?”

He started to speak, then looked at me and paused.

“Could we step into the hallway?” he asked Tilly, extending his arm toward the door.