eks。 How was I supposed eat； work； study？ How could he send me home with that word？
I took the form and turned it in。 That night； I waited until Baba fell asleep； and then folded a blanket。 I used it as a prayer rug。 Bowing my head to the ground； I recited half…forgotten verses from the Koran……verses the mullah had made us mit to memory in Kabul……and asked for kindness from a God I wasn t sure existed。 I envied the mullah now； envied his faith and certainty。
Two weeks passed and no one called。 And when I called them； they told me they d lost the referral。 Was I sure I had turned it in？ They said they would call in another three weeks。 I raised hell and bargained the three weeks down to one for the CAT scan； two to see the doctor。
The visit with the pulmonologist； Dr。 Schneider； was going well until Baba asked him where he was from。 Dr。 Schneider said Russia。 Baba lost it。
Excuse us； Doctor； I said； pulling Baba aside。 Dr。 Schneider smiled and stood back； stethoscope still in hand。
Baba； I read Dr。 Schneider s biography in the waiting room。 He was born in Michigan。 Michigan！ He s American； a lot more American than you and I will ever be。
I don t care where he was born； he s Roussi； Baba said； grimacing like it was a dirty word。 His parents were Roussi； his grandparents were Roussi。 I swear on your mother s face I ll break his arm if he tries to touch me。
Dr。 Schneider s parents fled from Shorawi； don t you see？ They escaped！
But Baba would hear none of it。 Sometimes I think the only thing he loved as much as his late wife was Afghanistan； his late country。 I almost screamed with frustration。 Instead； I sighed and turned to Dr。 Schneider。 I m sorry； Doctor。 This isn t going to work out。
The next pulmonologist； Dr。 Amani； was Iranian and Baba approved。 Dr。 Amani； a soft…spoken man with a crooked mustache and a mane of gray hair； told us he had reviewed the CAT scan results and that he would have to perform a procedure called a bronchoscopy to get a piece of the lung mass for pathology。 He scheduled it for the following week。 I thanked him as I helped Baba out of the office； thinking that now I had to live a whole week with this new word； mass； an even more ominous word than suspicious。 I wished Soraya were there with me。
It turned out that； like Satan； cancer had many names。 Baba s was called Oat Cell Carcinoma。 Advanced。 Inoperable。 Baba asked Dr。 Amani for a prognosis。 Dr。 Amani bit his lip； used the word grave。 There is chemotherapy； of course； he said。 But it would only be palliative。
What does that mean？ Baba asked。
Dr。 Amani sighed。 It means it wouldn t change the oute； just prolong it。
That s a clear answer； Dr。 Amani。 Thank you for that； Baba said。 But no chemo…medication for me。 He had the same resolved look on his face as the day he d dropped the stack of food stamps on Mrs。 Dobbins s desk。
But Baba……
Don t you challenge me in public； Amir。 Ever。 Who do you think you are？
THE RAIN General Taheri had spoken about at the flea market was a few weeks late； but when we stepped out of Dr。 Amani s office； passing cars sprayed grimy water onto the sidewalks。 Baba lit a cigarette。 He smoked all the way to the car and all the way home。
As he was slipping the key into the lobby door； I said； I wish you d give the chemo a chance； Baba。
Baba pocketed the keys； pulled me out of the rain and under the building s striped awning。 He kneaded me on the chest with the hand holding the cigarette。 Bas！ I ve made my decision。
What about me； Baba？ What am I supposed to do？ I said； my eyes welling up。
A look of disgust swept