Graves had been sick for three days when, on the long, straight highway between Mazar and Kunduz, a dark blue truck coming toward them shed its rear wheel in a spray of orange-yellow sparks. The wheel, as though excited by its sudden liberty, bounced twice not very high and once very high and hit their windshield with a damp crack. “Christ!” Donk called out from the backseat. The driver, much too late, wrenched on the steering wheel, and they fishtailed and then spun out into the dunes alongside the road. Against one of the higher sandbanks the Corolla slammed to a dusty halt. Sand as soft and pale as flour poured into the partially open windows. The shattered but still intact windshield sagged like netting. After a moment Donk touched his forehead, his eyebrow bristles as tender as split stitches. Thin, watery blood streaked down his fingers.
From the front passenger seat Graves asked if everyone—Donk, Hassan, the driver—was all right. No one spoke. Graves sighed. “Glad to hear it.” He gave his dune-pinned door two small, impotent outward pushes, then spent the next few moments staring out the splintery windshield. The air-freshener canister that had been suckered to the windshield lay quietly frothing lilac-scented foam in Graves’s lap. The spun-around Corolla now faced Kunduz, the city they had been trying to escape. “I’m glad I’m not a superstitious man,” Graves said at last. The driver’s hands were still gripped around the steering wheel.