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family’s future in their homeland, but the redevelopment had been far slower than they had anticipated. The multibillion-dollar opium trade had begunto flourish again, and the violence among the Taliban and the regional warlords overshadowed Afghanistan’s attempts at democracy and threatened the lives of Aamir and Sofia and the future of their two small children. They both yearned for a better life for their children and wanted to return to U.S. But it was not that simple. They were not U.S. citizens, and the U.S. was making it difficult for them to immigrate legally.
    One night a couple of weeks after the bombing, Aamir arrived at his usual time in a state of extreme agitation. While inspecting Matt’s wounds, he whispered that coalition forces were closing in on the Taliban group holding Matt. The fighters knew and were preparing to pull out. They were planning to retreat to a smaller village farther south where they still maintained a stronghold. Some of the guards wanted to execute Matt and leave his body in a conspicuous place as a warning to other Americans who dared to trespass upon their holy lands. A minority was in favor of taking Matt with them as a hostage. Either way, the outlook was not good.
    Aamir had a plan to bring Matt to safety, a plan that might even allow Aamir and his family a chance to start over. Matt remembered that last night clearly. They huddled together in that dank room and talked quietly into the night about what they needed to do. Together, they formulated a scheme to escape. It was risky, but they had few options. The nightmares that plagued Matt tonight, the nightmares that he would probably endure for the rest of his life, were about the day Aamir and Matt executed that plan.
    Later that morning, Matt’s front doorbell rang. The two men standing in his doorway eclipsed the sun behind them and momentarily gave Matt the uneasy feeling that he was trapped in his own home. They were dressed identically in dress slacks, pressed white shirts and navy blazers. Both had neat short hair, cropped closely on the sides. Dark sunglasses hid their eyes. With their rigid postures and lips pressed firmly together, it was clear they were not here for a social call.
    The younger man spoke first.
    “Good morning. Are you Matt Connelly?”
    “Yes. What can I do for you?”
    “My name is Cole Harrison. My partner Jack Rabin and I work with the Department of Homeland Security. We need a few minutes of your time.”
    “What’s this all about?” Matt asked still blocking entrance into the house.
    “We know that you just returned from traveling in Iraq and Afghanistan and need to speak with you. May we come in?”
    “I don’t know,” Matt said haltingly. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
    “Matt, we keep track of Americans who have traveled to high alert areas and interview them upon their return. These exit interviews, which are now standard operating procedure, are designed to gather information that may be helpful in the war on terror.”
    “It would be better if we did this inside, Matt,” the older man said. “And we only need a few minutes.”
    “All right,” Matt reluctantly agreed. “Fifteen minutes. That’s all I’ve got.”
    Matt hadn’t wanted to be difficult, but he worried that the exit interview was not really standard procedure but instead had something to do with his being considered persona non grata with the coalition forces and the U.S. military by the time he was finally permitted to leave the country. It was possible that these guys were merely here to harass Matt for what had happened in Afghanistan. Matt tried to shake the feeling of dread as he stood aside and the two men filed past him, each stopping to formally shake his hand.
    He gestured to the couch and suggested they make themselves comfortable. A few moments later, Matt returned from the kitchen with two glasses of water. Harrison was sitting on the edge of the chair situated to the right of the sofa.