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But we found him about a hundred yards from the mosque； sitting in the half…full parking lot； on an island of grass。 Fayyaz pulled up to the island and let me out。 I have to get back； he said。
That s fine。 We ll walk back； I said。 Thank you； Mr。 Fayyaz。 Really。
He leaned across the front seat when I got out。 Can I say something to you？
Sure。
In the dark of twilight； his face was just a pair of eyeglasses reflecting the fading light。 The thing about you Afghanis is that。。。 well； you people are a little reckless。
I was tired and in pain。 My jaws throbbed。 And those damn wounds on my chest and stomach felt like barbed wire under my skin。 But I started to laugh anyway。
What。。。 what did I。。。 Fayyaz was saying； but I was cackling by then； full…throated bursts of laughter spilling through my wired mouth。
Crazy people； he said。 His tires screeched when he peeled away； his tail…lights blinking red in the dimming light。
You GAVE ME A GOOD SCARE； I said。 I sat beside him； wincing with pain as I bent。
He was looking at the mosque。 Shah Faisal Mosque was shaped like a giant tent。 Cars came and went； worshipers dressed in white streamed in and out。 We sat in silence； me leaning against the tree； Sohrab next to me； knees to his chest。 We listened to the call to prayer； watched the building s hundreds of lights e on as daylight faded。 The mosque sparkled like a diamond in the dark。 It lit up the sky； Sohrab s face。
Have you ever been to Mazar…i…Sharif？ Sohrab said； his chin resting on his kneecaps。
A long time ago。 I don t remember it much。
Father took me there when I was little。 Mother and Sasa came along too。 Father bought me a monkey from the bazaar。 Not a real one but the kind you have to blow up。 It was brown and had a bow tie。
I might have had one of those when I was a kid。
Father took me to the Blue Mosque； Sohrab said。 I remember there were so many pigeons outside the masjid； and they weren t afraid of people。 They came right up to us。 Sasa gave me little pieces of _naan_ and I fed the birds。 Soon； there were pigeons cooing all around me。 That was fun。
You must miss your parents very much； I said。 I wondered if he d seen the Taliban drag his parents out into the street。 I hoped he hadn t。
Do you miss your parents？ he aked； resting his cheek on his knees； looking up at me。
Do I miss my parents？ Well； I never met my mother。 My father died a few years ago； and； yes； I do miss him。 Sometimes a lot。
Do you remember what he looked like？
I thought of Baba s thick neck； his black eyes； his unruly brown hair。 Sitting on his lap had been like sitting on a pair of tree trunks。 I remember what he looked like； I said。 What he smelled like too。
I m starting to forget their faces； Sohrab said。 Is that bad？
No； I said。 Time does that。 I thought of something。 I looked in the front pocket of my coat。 Found the Polaroid snap shot of Hassan and Sohrab。 Here； I said。
He brought the photo to within an inch of his face； turned it so the light from the mosque fell on it。 He looked at it for a long time。 I thought he might cry； but he didn t。 He just held it in both hands； traced his thumb over its surface。 I thought of a line I d read somewhere； or maybe I d heard someone say it： There are a lot of children in Afghanistan； but little childhood。 He stretched his hand to give it back to me。
Keep it； I said。 It s yours。
Thank you。 He looked at the photo again and stowed it in the pocket of his vest。 A horse…drawn cart clip…clopped by in the parking lot。 Little bells dangled from the horse s neck and jingled with each step