“Can you search email by date?”
“Yeah.”He positions his hands above the keyboard, eyeing me expectantly.
“Date Kabul fell.The second time.”
“August fifteenth, 2021,” he rattles off immediately.
“Are you a closet genius, Daryl?”
“Nah.I read.I remember things.”
“Bet you killed it in high school.”
“You’re assuming I was sober.”
“Hey, drunk as a skunk was my strategy!”
“And now,” he observes sagely, “here we are.”
“Here we are,” I agree, and that thought lightens my mood, because if anything, it proves two kids can do everything wrong, and yet by some miracle still end up okay in the end.Or at least good enough.
I rub my temples.
“Okay,” Daryl calls out.“Whole stream of messages from that time period.Lots of them.”
“We’re looking for something personal,” I advise.“Contact from a family member or friend still over in Kabul.”
“What is it you’re hoping to find?”
“A name.Aliah’s cousin’s son.Shot to death by the Taliban, body left in the street as a warning to others.I want to know his name.”
“Why?”
“So I can learn from my mistakes,” I inform him seriously.“Because I knew from the beginning there was more to Aliah’s interest than met the eye, but I didn’t push hard enough.I didn’t ask the right questions, mostly because I didn’t figure out what that line of interrogation should be untilaftershe was taken.Not gonna lie, Daryl.I hate it when I’m dumb.”
Daryl grunts.
I’m concussed enough to ask yet another question I’ve been dying to know: “So how long have you been in love with Roberta?”
No longer a grunt but a growl.
“Have you met her husband?Is he a decent fellow?”
Heartfelt sigh.
“You’re never going to say anything, are you?They’re good together, you don’t want to rock the boat, even if you and Roberta could be great together?”
Deeper sigh.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him honestly, then resume watching cloud patterns in the ceiling.
“Got something,” he says at last.“Email dated a week later.From maybe a family member?‘Heart is very heavy.Sad, terrible, heartbreaking news: Kabul has fallen.Taliban has taken over.They are safe for now, but Jamil was shot and killed.’”
“Fuck me, Iknewit!”
Daryl gazes down at me on the floor, arching a single brow in question.
“Would you like to know Zahra’s middle name?Jamila.As in daughter of Jamil.What are the odds?”
