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Just then； Maryam and the other woman came into the room with a pair of cups and a teapot on a small platter。 I stood up in respect； pressed my hand to my chest； and bowed my head。 Salaam alaykum； I said。
The woman； who had now wrapped her hijab to conceal her lower face； bowed her head too。 Sataam； she replied in a barely audible voice。 We never made eye contact。 She poured the tea while I stood。
The woman placed the steaming cup of tea before me and exited the room； her bare feet making no sound at all as she disappeared。 I sat down and sipped the strong black tea。 Wahid finally broke the uneasy silence that followed。
So what brings you back to Afghanistan？
What brings them all back to Afghanistan； dear brother？ Farid said； speaking to Wahid but fixing me with a contemptuous gaze。
Bas！ Wahid snapped。
It s always the same thing； Farid said。 Sell this land； sell that house； collect the money； and run away like a mouse。 Go back to America； spend the money on a family vacation to Mexico。
Farid！ Wahid roared。 His children； and even Farid； flinched。 Have you forgotten your…manners？ This is my house！ Amir agha is my guest tonight and I will not allow you to dishonor me like this！
Farid opened his mouth； almost said something； reconsidered and said nothing。 He slumped against the wall； muttered some thing under his breath； and crossed his mutilated foot over the good one。 His accusing eyes never left me。
Forgive us； Amir agha； Wahid said。 Since childhood； my brother s mouth has been two steps ahead of his head。
It s my fault； really； I said； trying to smile under Farid s intense gaze。 I am not offended。 I should have explained to him my business here in Afghanistan。 I am not here to sell property。 I m going to Kabul to find a boy。
A boy； Wahid repeated。
Yes。 I fished the Polaroid from the pocket of my shirt。 Seeing Hassan s picture again tore the fresh scab off his death。 I had to turn my eyes away from it。 I handed it to Wahid。 He studied the photo。 Looked from me to the photo and back again。 This boy？
I nodded。
This Hazara boy。
Yes。
What does he mean to you？
His father meant a lot to me。 He is the man in the photo。 He s dead now。
Wahid blinked。 He was a friend of yours？
My instinct was to say yes； as if； on some deep level； I too wanted to protect Baba s secret。 But there had been enough lies already。 He was my half…brother。 I swallowed。 Added； My illegitimate half brother。 I turned the teacup。 Toyed with the handle。
I didn t mean to pry。
You re not prying； I said。
What will you do with him？
Take him back to Peshawar。 There are people there who will take care of him。
Wahid handed the photo back and rested his thick hand on my shoulder。 You are an honorable man； Amir agha。 A true Afghan。
I cringed inside。
I am proud to have you in our home tonight； Wahid said。 I thanked him and chanced a glance over to Farid。 He was looking down now； playing with the frayed edges of the straw mat。
A SHORT WHILE LATER； Maryam and her mother brought two steaming bowls of vegetable shorwa and two loaves of bread。 I m sorry we can t offer you meat； Wahid said。 Only the Taliban can afford meat now。
This looks wonderful； I said。 It did too。 I offered some to him； to the kids； but Wahid said the family had eaten before we arrived。 Farid and I rolled up our sleeves； dipped our bread in the shorwa； and ate with our hands。
As I ate； I noticed Wahid s boys； all three thin with dirtcaked faces and short…cropped brown hair under their skullcaps； stealing furtive glances at my digital wristwatch。 The youngest whispered something in his brother s ear。 The brother nodded； didn t take his eyes off my watch。 The oldest of the boys……I guessed his age at about twelve……rocked back and forth； his gaze glued to my wrist。 After dinner； after I d washed my hands with the water Maryam poured from a clay pot； I asked for Wahid s permission to give his boys a hadia； a gift。 He said no； but； when I insisted； he reluctantly agreed。 I unsnapped the wristwatch and gave it to the youngest of the three boys。 He muttered a sheepish Tashakor。
It tells you the time in any city in the world； I told him。 The boys nodded politely； passing the watch between them； taking
turns trying it on。 But they lost interest and； soon； the watch sat abandoned on the straw mat。
You COULD HAVE TOLD ME； Farid saidlater。 The two ofus were lying next to each other on the straw mats Wahid s wife had spread for us。
Told you what？
Why you ve e to Afghanistan。 His voice had lost the rough edge I d heard in it since the moment I had met him。
You didn t ask； I said。
You should have told me。
You didn t ask。
He rolled to face me。 Curled his arm under his head。 Maybe I will help you find this boy。
Thank you； Farid； I said。
It was wrong of me to assume。
I sighed。 Don t worry。 You were more right than you know。
HIS HANDS ARE TIED BEHIND HIM with roughly woven rope cutting through the flesh of his wrists。 He is blindfolded with black cloth。 He is kneeling on the street； on the edge of a gutter filled with still water； his head drooping between his shoulders。 His knees roll on the hard ground and bleed through his pants as he rocks in prayer。 It is late afternoon and his long shadow sways back and forth on the gravel。 He is muttering something under his breath。 I step closer。 A thousand times over； he mutters。 For you a thousand times over。 Back and forth he rocks。 He lifts his face。 I see a faint scar above his upper lip。
We are not alone。
I see the barrel first。 Then the man standing behind him。 He is tall； dressed in a herringbone vest and a black turban。 He looks down at the blindfolded man before him with eyes that show nothing but a vast； cavernous emptiness。 He takes a step back and raises the barrel。 Places it on the back of the kneeling man s head。 For a moment； fading sunlight catches in the metal and twinkles。
The rifle roars with a deafening crack。
I follow the barrel on its upward arc。 I see the face behind the plume of smoke swirling from the muzzle。 I am the man in the herringbone vest。
I woke up with a scream trapped in my throat。
I STEPPED OUTSIDE。 Stood in the silver tarnish of a half…moon and glanced up to a sky riddled with stars。 Crickets chirped in the shuttered darkness and a wind wafted through the trees。 The ground was cool under my bare feet and suddenly； for the first time since we had crossed the border； I felt like I was back。 After all these years； I was home again； standing on the soil of my ancestors。 This was the soil on which my great…grandfather had married his third wife a year before dying in the chole