Parents generally slip when calling their children’s names. My parents had even confused my brother and me when calling us to come in from the yard. Neelab’s mother had once called the names of her own five sisters, Rostam, and a sister-in-law before she managed to summon her daughter’s name.

But my parents had never called me Aryana because her name was never said casually. Her name was preceded and followed by words of prayer, by eyes blinking back tears, and by heavy sighs. But now, because of me, my sister’s name was being spoken plainly and without a whiff of commemoration.

“I will do everything I can,” the man said sternly, “but you’re well aware of the challenges. I’m hoping to have some answers for you and . . . Aryana . . . soon.”

May your spirit live in light, dear sister, I said under my breath.

“Absolutely. We’ll be here in the morning. It’s a date,” Tilly said. She tucked a folded piece of paper into her purse. With our two bags in tow, we retraced our steps. The same soldier escorted us to the front door, signaling to the Pakistani officers guarding the front gate to let us out. Tilly hailed a taxicab and handed the driver the slip of paper with the address of the hotel.

I was quiet in the car, thinking of how fate could be decided by a bullet or a birth certificate, by a stamp or a stampede. I was still falling and feeling in the pit of my stomach that my landing would not come softly. I sensed an electricity in the streets around us, a loose wire. My stomach clenched when a man in a red T-shirt and dark jeans stepped in front of our car at a red light and looked past our driver, to see his passengers.

Within a few moments, the yellow taxi slipped out of the serene neighborhood of embassies, each with a unique flag hoisted high on its front lawn and each with a unique reason for planting itself on foreign soil. This cast of banners were lifted into the air like the raised hands of diligent students in a roll call. Of politicians casting self-serving votes. Or of righteous witnesses preparing to testify.

Chapter 23

When, after two hours of trying, Tilly finally got through to Antonia, she sank back into her chair with relief. We were exhausted from the day’s journey and the hours spent at the embassy.

“Nia, thank goodness. Where have you been?” she asked, her back resting against the velvet of the armchair.

“Where have I been? Mom, did you really just ask that?” I could hear the bewilderment in her voice from where I stood. I didn’t bother pretending I wasn’t listening.