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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 cholera epidemic that hit Kabul in 1915。 She d borne him what his first two wives had failed to； a son at last。 It was on this soil that my grandfather had gone on a hunting trip with King Nadir Shah and shot a deer。 My mother had died on this soil。 And on this soil； I had fought for my father s love。
I sat against one of the house s clay walls。 The kinship I felt suddenly for the old land。。。 it surprised me。 I d been gone long enough to forget and be forgotten。 I had a home in a land that might as well be in another galaxy to the people sleeping on