t with each breath。 One of the guards said something in Pashtu and then they blew past us； running into the room where Assef was still screaming。 OUT！
Bia； Sohrab said； pulling my hand。 Let s go！
I stumbled down the hallway； Sohrab s little hand in mine。 I took a final look over my shoulder。 The guards were huddled over Assef； doing something to his face。 Then I understood： The brass ball was still stuck in his empty eye socket。
The whole world rocking up and down； swooping side to side； I hobbled down the steps； leaning on Sohrab。 From above； Assef s screams went on and on； the cries of a wounded animal。 We made it outside； into daylight； my arm around Sohrab s shoulder； and I saw Farid running toward us。
Bismillah！ Bismillah！ he said； eyes bulging at the sight of me。
He slung my arm around his shoulder and lifted me。 Carried me to the truck； running。 I think I screamed。 I watched the way his sandals pounded the pavement； slapped his black； calloused heels。 It hurt to breathe。 Then I was looking up at the roof of the Land Cruiser； in the backseat； the upholstery beige and ripped； listen ing to the ding…ding…ding signaling an open door。 Running foot steps around the truck。 Farid and Sohrab exchanging quick words。 The truck s doors slammed shut and the engine roared to life。 The car jerked forward and I felt a tiny hand on my forehead。 I heard voices on the street； some shouting； and saw trees blurring past in the window Sohrab was sobbing。 Farid was still repeating； Bis millah！ Bismillak！
It was about then that I passed out。
TWENTY…THREE
Faces poke through the haze； linger； fade away。 They peer down； ask me questions。 They all ask questions。 Do I know who I am？ Do I hurt anywhere？ I know who I am and I hurt everywhere。 I want to tell them this but talking hurts。 I know this because some time ago； maybe a year ago； maybe two； maybe ten； I tried to talk to a child with rouge on his cheeks and eyes smeared black。 The child。 Yes； I see him now。 We are in a car of sorts； the child and I； and I don t think Soraya s driving because Soraya never drives this fast。 I want to say something to this child……it seems very impor tant that I do。 But I don t remember what I want to say； or why it might have been important。 Maybe I want
to tell him to stop cry ing； that everything will be all right now。 Maybe not。 For some reason I can t think of； I want to thank the child。
Faces。 They re all wearing green hats。 They slip in and out of view They talk rapidly； use words I don t understand。 I hear other voices； other noises； beeps and alarms。 And always more faces。 Peering down。 I don t remember any of them； except for the one with the gel in his hair and the Clark Gable mustache； the one with the Africa stain on his cap。 Mister Soap Opera Star。 That s funny。 I want to laugh now。 But laughing hurts too。
I fade out。
SHE SAYS HER NAME IS AISHA； like the prophet s wife。 Her graying hair is parted in the middle and tied in a ponytail； her nose pierced with a stud shaped like the sun。 She wears bifocals that make her eyes bug out。 She wears green too and her hands are soft。 She sees me looking at her and smiles。 Says something in English。 Something is jabbing at the side of my chest。
I fade out。
A MAN IS STANDING at my bedside。 I know him。 He is dark and lanky； has a long beard。 He wears a hat……what are those hats called？ Pakols？ Wears it tilted to one side like a famous person whose name escapes me now。 I know this man。 He drove me somewhere a few years ago。 I know him。 There is something wrong with my mouth。 I hear a bubbling sound。
I fade out。
MY RIGHT ARM BURNS