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Wazir Akbar Khan was a neighborhood to the north of the city, a suburb that was home to many embassies and foreign workers. The streets were wider than they were in the part of Kabul I had seen. Two-story buildings lined the road. I tried not to look as nervous and lost as I felt.

The bus slowed. Pharmacy of Wazir Akbar Khan, read the sign on a building.

This is it, I thought, and snaked through the crowd to get off before the bus resumed its course.

I recognized no one and didn’t notice any suspicious stares. I turned my attention to the shops, looking for the landmarks I’d been given. One storefront had crates outside, boxes of detergent, household supplies. There was a butcher shop. There was everything except what I was looking for.

I turned down another street but saw only houses. Beautiful houses that put Abdul Khaliq’s estate to shame. They were new buildings with modern façades that I didn’t have time to take in. Minutes were ticking by and I might miss this opportunity.

I worked up the nerve to ask someone, steeling my voice an octave below in disguise.

Agha-sahib? Agha—”

“For God’s sake, boy, I don’t have any money to give!” the man said, and kept on moving.

I looked for someone else to ask.

A woman walked by. I wanted to approach her but my tongue froze when I saw the little boy, probably three or four years old, holding her hand tightly. He pointed at a car in the street and looked up to see if his mother noticed. She nodded and said something that made him giggle with delight.

Jahangir, I thought, my chest tight.

The woman was gone before I recovered. I walked further down the street, blinking away tears. I stood in front of a shop window, a clock catching my eye and sending me into a panic.

One o’clock. My pulse quickened. If I was too late, this could all fall apart. I would have risked everything for nothing. What would become of me?

My eyes moved from the clock to a flyer hung on the storefront.

Visit Shekiba’s Beauty Shop, Sarai Shahzada. Weddings and all occasions.

That must be it! I thought. Shekiba.

I closed my eyes, reenergized by the shop’s name. It was as if a hand was holding mine, guiding me. I read the flyer again.

Sarai Shahzada. I was sure I’d seen a sign with that street name and traced my steps back. Two lefts and I was there again, concrete sidewalks and trees giving it a clean, welcoming appeal. Within minutes, I had found the beauty shop, sandwiched between an electronics shop and a store with crates of fruits and vegetables outside.

Shekiba’s Beauty Shop.

As I had been instructed, I looked directly across from it and spotted a teahouse.

I hope I’m not too late.

I dodged oncoming cars again and crossed the street, trying to see through the shop’s glass front. The door handle rattled in my hand. I took a deep breath and hoped I didn’t look too crazed to the people inside.

I spotted her immediately, her soft bangs peeking out from beneath her gray and plum head scarf. Her eyes were on the door and looking just as nervous as mine. When she recognized me, her hand flew to cover her open mouth. She stood up.

I wove through the tables, the Afghans speaking English, the foreigners drinking cardamom-infused green tea.

“You made it!” she whispered when I approached her table.

“Yes, Ms. Franklin,” I said, and collapsed into the chair.

CHAPTER 69. RAHIMA

Nine days passed before I saw Hamida and Sufia. They had kept away, afraid that somehow they might lead someone to me. Hamida became tearful when she saw me. Sufia let out a triumphant yelp, with an energy I’d never seen her display in the parliamentary sessions.

Ms. Franklin and I had gone directly from the teahouse to a women’s shelter she had located. It wasn’t the shelter that we’d heard about. It was another one, one much further from the parliament building and on the western outskirts of the capital.

The shelter was both sad and uplifting. There were stories there, stories that made me cringe, scars that would never heal.

I met a woman who lived there with her three children. When her in-laws learned of her husband’s death, they accused her of killing him. About to be jailed, she decided to run rather than risk losing her two daughters and one son.

Another woman had escaped a heavy-handed husband, a husband who was having an affair with her younger sister. One night, while he snored beside her, she crept out softly and walked two days and two nights to reach a police station.

And there was a girl. She was my age and her story made me realize that I wasn’t alone. At twelve years old, she’d been married off to a man five times her age. Her family had put her in a white dress and taken her to a party. At the end of the night, they left without her. Four years later, she had run off, escaping the in-laws who treated her as a slave.

I wasn’t ready to share my story with them yet. Even here, in this open room with Afghan carpets and the smell of cumin, I felt my husband’s reach. If he knew where to look, it would only take him a day to reach me. The thought made me so nervous I could barely eat.

Hamida and Sufia only came once. I missed them but I could expect nothing more, knowing the route was long and that they had obligations to their own families. Visiting a shelter could attract the wrong attention and endanger everyone involved. I would always think of them warmly and with deep gratitude, remembering how they and Ms. Franklin had formulated a plan to help me escape the naseeb that awaited me had I returned to my husband. My plan, though, didn’t account for what might happen to Badriya. Hamida and Sufia had seen her once the day after my disappearance. She looked furious and suspicious, they said, but she seemed to believe their surprise to hear I was missing. I was sure Abdul Khaliq would never let her return to Kabul and I hated to think what Abdul Khaliq had done to her when she’d returned to the compound. Though she hadn’t been kind to me, I wished his wrath on no one.

I had time in the shelter, time to finally sit down and contemplate all that had happened. I felt embarrassed, remembering the day I’d argued with Khala Shaima, snapped at her that all the education she’d pushed me to get hadn’t done me one bit of good.

It wasn’t true.

It was only because I was literate that I was able to join Badriya in Kabul. It was only because I could hold a pen with purpose that I was able to be her assistant and feel comfortable joining Hamida and Sufia in the resource center. It was my few years of school that allowed me to read the beauty shop flyer in the store window, to locate the street where Ms. Franklin waited nervously to help me make my escape.

I’m sorry, Khala-jan. I’m sorry I never thanked you for fighting for me, for everything you taught me, for the stories you told me, for the escape you gave me.

My only regret was that I hadn’t been able to send word to Khala Shaima, to let her know that I had made it out and that I was safe. I hoped she didn’t think Abdul Khaliq had killed me. I prayed she would not try to visit me at Abdul Khaliq’s compound, knowing she would be met by my very angry husband. But I wanted to send her a message, somehow — I had to try. I would take pen to paper and write my dear aunt a note, a few words, so that she could share in what I’d managed to do, what she’d given me the strength to do.

I finally was able to convince Ms. Franklin to mail her a letter.

The letter, addressed to Khala Shaima, was from her second cousin and it talked of nothing but the smell of fresh air, the delightful sound of birds chirping, and the hope that the family could pay a visit sometime soon.