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a bubbling sound。
I fade out。
MY RIGHT ARM BURNS。 The woman with the bifocals and sun…shaped stud is hunched over my arm； attaching a clear plastic tubing to it。 She says it s the Potassium。 It stings like a bee； no？ she says。 It does。 What s her name？ Something to do with a prophet。 I know her too from a few years ago。 She used to wear her hair in a ponytail。 Now it s pulled back； tied in a bun。 Soraya
wore her hair like that the first time we spoke。 When was that？ Last week？
Aisha！ Yes。
There is something wrong with my mouth。 And that thing jab bing at my chest。
I fade out。
WE ARE IN THE SULAIMAN MOUNTAINS of Baluchistan and Baba is wrestling the black bear。 He is the Baba of my child hood； _Toophan agha_； the towering specimen of Pashtun might； not the withered man under the blankets； the man with the sunken cheeks and hollow eyes。 They roll over a patch of green grass； man and beast； Baba s curly brown hair flying。 The bear roars； or maybe it s Baba。 Spittle and blood fly； claw and hand swipe。 They fall to the ground with a loud thud and Baba is sitting on the bear s chest； his fingers digging in its snout。 He looks up at me and I see。 He s me。 I am wrestling the bear。
I wake up。 The lanky dark man is back at my bedside。 His name is Farid； I remember now。 And with him is the child from the car。 His face reminds me of the sound of bells。 I am thirsty。
I fade out。
I keep fading in and out。
THE NAME OF THE MAN with the Clark Gable mustache turned out to be Dr。 Faruqi。 He wasn t a soap opera star at all； but a head…and…neck surgeon； though I kept thinking of him as some one named Armand in some steamy soap set on a tropical island。
Where am I？ I wanted to ask。 But my mouth wouldn t open。 I frowned。 Grunted。 Armand smiled； his teeth were blinding white。
Not yet； Amir； he said； but soon。 When the wires are out。 He spoke English with a thick； rolling Urdu accent。
Wires？
Armand crossed his arms； he had hairy forearms and wore a gold wedding band。 You must be wondering where you are； what happened to you。 That s perfectly normal； the postsurgical state is always disorienting。 So I ll tell you what I know。
I wanted to ask him about the wires。 Postsurgical？ Where was Aisha？ I wanted her to smile at me； wanted her soft hands in mine。
Armand frowned； cocked one eyebrow in a slightly selfimportant way。 You are in a hospital in Peshawar。 You ve been here two days。 You have suffered some very significant injuries； Amir； I should tell you。 I would say you re very lucky to be alive； my friend。 He swayed his index finger back and forth like a pendu lum when he said this。 Your spleen had ruptured； probably……and fortunately for you……a delayed rupture； because you had signs of early hemorrhage into your abdominal cavity My colleagues from the general surgery unit had to perform an emergency splenec tomy。 If it had ruptured earlier； you would have bled to death。 He patted me on the arm； the one with the IV； and smiled。 You also suffered seven broken ribs。 One of them caused a pneumothorax。
I frowned。 Tried to open my mouth。 Remembered about the wires。
That means a punctured lung； Armand explained。 He tugged at a clear plastic tubing on my left side。 I felt the jabbing again in my chest。 We sealed the leak with this chest tube。 I followed the tube poking through bandages on my chest to a container halffilled with columns of water。 The bubbling sound came from there。
You had also suffered various lacerations。 That means cuts。 I wanted to tell him I knew what the word meant； I was a writer。 I went to open my mouth。 Forgot about the wires again。