Bones of the Lost

mother-and-daughter team who’d enlisted, trained, and deployed together.”
    “Seriously?”
    “They were Air Force, assigned to some sort of escort duty.”
    “Are you suggesting we buddy up?”
    Loud guffaw. Another pause, then, “My unit’s heading out again in two days.”
    “Heading where?”
    “To the north. That’s all I can say. Actually, that’s all I know.”
    “I understand.” I did. And hated it.
    Katy finished the dregs of her oh-so-plain coffee and asked, “Ready to cruise the mall?”
    We both laughed. The Bagram “mall” consisted of a warren of shops and kiosks, most selling locally manufactured products. Brass, wood, and fabric items. Jewelry. Rugs. That was about it.
    “Lead on, empress of shopping,” I said.
    She did.
    “Are the merchants all Afghans?” I asked as we walked.
    “I think so. They come in the morning, clear security, operate their stalls, clear security again, and head home. We’re talking sixteen-, seventeen-hour days.”
    As we passed, vendors entreated us gently to inspect their wares. Now and then we stopped. I was admiring an intricately woven scarf when something brushed my free hand. I turned.
    An Afghan girl of about fifteen or sixteen was standing close, her large brown eyes fixed on my face.
    “Hello.” I smiled.
    The girl whispered in Pashto or Dari. I caught only one word.
Allah.
    “I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t understand.”
    Eyes cutting left and right, the girl repeated what she’d said. Maybe. Again, all I caught was Allah.
    Did the girl want something? Or was she just trying to spread the word?
    Katy was examining a scarf on another rack. I waved her over.
    “Can you understand what she’s saying?”
    “Don’t worry about it.” Katy lowered her voice. “She’s a little off.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I’ve seen her do this before.”
    “Do what?”
    “Rag on women in civvies.” Katy nudged me around the girl and up the street. “One of my bunkmates says the kid’s nuts.”
    I allowed myself to be led. But when we stopped, I glanced over my shoulder.
    The girl was still staring at me. As I watched, a man emerged from the shop and drew her inside.
    “Mom.”
    I turned back.
    “Come look at this.”
    Unsettled, I tried to focus on the rug that had drawn Katy’s eye. I was about to comment when the sound of wailing split the air.
    “Incoming.” Katy dropped the rug. “Let’s go.”
    We bolted across the road, took a hard right, and scrambled into a low concrete structure covered with sandbags. Others already occupied the benches. More followed us in.
    In seconds the bunker was full. I sensed no panic, more the calm acceptance that comes with routine.
    As we waited in the dark, sirens screaming, I again felt a light touch on my hand. I glanced left. Recognized the silhouette. The Allah girl was hunkered beside me. Beyond her was the man who’d taken her inside the shop.
    Time passed.
    The girl was so close I could feel her body trembling. At one point she whimpered. The man spoke to her sharply. I heard the word
Khandan
. Her name?
    Finally, the all-clear sounded. We gathered our gear and scrambled out.
    “You’re pretty cool about this,” I said, slinging my backpack over one shoulder.
    Katy shrugged. “More a nuisance than anything. You get used to it. Life goes on.”
    Usually. But many had died at U.S. bases as a result of missile and mortar attacks.
    As we spoke, the man and girl passed. Though he paid us no attention, her eyes again locked onto mine. Sad? Bewildered? Pleading?
    Yes. That’s what bothered me. The girl seemed so needy. But needy of what?
    Then she was gone.
    “What do you suppose that kid was trying to say?” I asked Katy.
    “I told you. She’s a nutjob. Forget it.”
    I tried.
    But that night, alone in my bunk, the girl’s face floated before me.
    Again and again I saw the dark, imploring eyes.

TWENTY-FOUR HOURS LATER I was still thinking about the girl.
    Two girls, actually.
    Khandan, at Bagram. Jane Doe, in Charlotte.
    Welsted had organized my return flights. I’d risen with the sun to set out. The seven-thousand-mile trip, one to tax the resolve of even the most hardened traveler, started sadly, then quickly morphed into a nightmare.
    First there was the tearful farewell with Katy. She met me at the flight line. We hugged tightly. She was so damn strong.
    “You going to be okay?”
    “I’m the one leaving. Promise you’ll be careful?”
    “Relax, Mom. I’ll be