The hill station town of Murree had two main bazaars: Upper and Lower. The girls from my school could only shop in the Upper Bazaar, considered safe with its open spaces, tourist shops, and restaurants. The Lower Bazaar was strictly off limits to us. It was a dark, narrow alley of shops squeezed between colonial buildings that wound down the hillside. Only the boys from my school could go there.

After class on Thursdays, we ran back to the dormitory to change our clothes. Thursdays were shopping days for the girls at Murree Christian School, and the green school bus would leave in 15 minutes.

On my dad’s 84th birthday, Harvey called to ask about Dad’s disconnected phone. Harvey was Dad’s last remaining friend from their generation. They’d survived the Korean War together and shared many good times in the years that followed.

The narrow road from Murree wound through the Himalayas, descending 7,500 feet onto the sweltering, Indus Plain. The journey in the back seat of a speeding mini-van left me nearly revisiting my breakfast. I was a high school freshman on a field trip to the Rawalpindi Leprosy Hospital.