“What is this?” Still she was whispering. She didn’t want Will to get pissy.

“For you,” Baz said.

“For me?”

“Please,” he said, wrist up, bag perched on his palm.

“What’s going on back there?” Will’s brows were visible in the rearview.

Mary returned to the passenger seat with the bag in hand.

“A gift,” Mary said. “From Baz. For us.”

Baz shot forward. “Madar only.”

“Madar only, huh?” Will said.

“Thank you,” Mary said. “May I open it now? Or should I wait.”

“Now,” Baz said. She could tell he wished Will would not have to witness opening the present.

She peeled back the bag, a brown paper but flimsier than back home. There was the immediate aroma of roasting, and then, in browned handfuls, pistachios. They had all been shelled. She felt the graininess of the salt slathered with cooking oil. Her fingers were slick, and she was hungry at once. The smell filled the truck.

“Baz,” she said, her voice a chime. “This is the best gift.”

Will dipped into the bag. “Good, really good,” he said through his munching.

The sun fell down, and they ate. There would be rain. They were also approaching roads more traveled. Mary needed to practice Farsi, just in case. Will didn’t think the Kurds were right about police stopping them—why would they? In bad weather, though, accidents were an issue. That was the only thing that would get them out of the car that would call for play-acting. Filling up the tank was a quiet stop, one they’d done the other night at an isolated turnoff.

“I understand,” Will said.

“Mifahmam,” Mary tried.

“Bale!” Baz exclaimed. Yes.

“Don’t understand,” Will said.

“No … no. Nomifahmam.”

“Namifahmam. N-A. Na-mi-fah-mam.” Baz went slow.

She tried again. Muffed it. Third try, success.

“What is that?”

“Ooncheeah.”

“Bale!” Yes, from Baz.

“Careful.”

“Beppo.”

“Shortcut.”

“Raheh kootah.”

“Where is my husband?”

“Shoharam kojust?”

“Where’s my son?”

“Pesaram kojust?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Bebash.”

“I didn’t realize I was doing anything wrong.”

“Nafahmidam ke kar e eshtebahi mikonam.”

“Doroste!” Correct.

“We’re innocent.”

“Ma bigonah im.”

“Can I call someone?”

“Mitunam be kesi zang bezanam?”

“How old is your son?”

“Pesar e shoma chand salesh e?”

“Response,” Will said.

“Un sizdah salesh e.” My son is thirteen.

They went on with it. “Help us.” “Leave me alone.” “My husband is injured.” “We are mountain people. We are not far from home.” “My father expects us.” “Are you all right?” “Does your car start?”

Just as they reached the wider road, the first thunder boomed to them. Mary felt the distances around them. They were small, wayward, in weather that went for miles. She saw the moonbeams of rain ahead, and then they were in it, the plumpest water beads smearing on the windshield.

“So what’s the golden one?” Will looked at her, actually smiling.

“Golden?”

“The get-out-of-jail-free?”

“Akh!?” Ouch.

“I don’t think so,” he said.