Her crew chief sounded as if she had the look of defenseless chica brutally attacked. Wrong, she wanted to tell him. Not me. But he would avenge. His face was blotchy. She expected her new love to swagger, to respond in keeping with his physical might, but he didn’t; he wiped the wet of her mouth from his and, without a backward glance, said, “Sorry, sorry. It won’t happen again.” He disappeared behind a Viper next to hers, his steps a petty echo until he reached the mud at the hangar’s far end.

On the new road to the embassy, Rex’s friend was driving along the Hesco barricades smack in its paved middle. The barriers forced a multi-ton to weave like a drunk. Mary saw Karzai’s palace, its third-floor balustrade sagging into what had been a grove of trees, now a clearing of stumps.

The U.S. Embassy was orange and mustard, a combination only a little more ugly than the structure itself. A sign instructed, Dim Lights Drive Slowly When Approaching. They drifted slomo past gates, guns, guards, roadblocks, living quarters on the left, café on the right, planters that doubled as blockades topped off with the last of the unmelted snow. When Mary had first arrived they’d held a few straggling roses.

They finally reached the main building. There were hundreds of dirt-scumbled vehicles in the parking lot. She was surprised to see so many participants in what until now had seemed her own bad dream.

Two days after the accident, Rex was stable. His friend really wanted to know about the sledding. He kept saying the word—sledding this, sledding also, sledding maybe—scoffing, but maybe she had the problem; she was in one of those states where who it was that brought the mess was unclear, but, regardless, she wasn’t giving any more than monosyllables to scrub it up. He didn’t like that, so, after more questions got more variations snootier than not, they dropped into silence. She needed to be more pushy, more back-in-your-face, especially after Drew, whom she disliked, maybe invited, the feelings going guilty, unwelcome, and back to craven, circling like that, until, as usual, she ordered herself just to shut it off. What came in place was parading angels, frills in white, locket like clover, and, soon enough, now who’s the dummy. Close by the childhood diagnosis floating up: Occasional emotional lability. No cognitive disorder. Affect flat. She held on as they walked into the embassy.

They were early. But so was everyone else. People had begun filling up an auditorium on the first floor. It was almost all men, the baritone hum of them filling the lobby. A good many were carrying M4s and wearing thigh holsters, looking, with their bulletproof vests pushing their chests out, intently virile. They would be.