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ht 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。
I ve been thinking a lot about mosques lately； Sohrab said。
You have？ What about them？
He shrugged。 Just thinking about them。 He lifted his face； looked straight at me。 Now he was crying； softly； silently。 Can I ask you something； Amir agha？
Of course。
Will God。。。 he began； and choked a little。 Will God put me in hell for what I did to that man？
I reached for him and he flinched。 I pulled back。 Nay。 Of course not； I said。 I wanted to pull him close； hold him； tell him the world had been unkind to him； not the other way around。
His face twisted and strained to stay posed。 Father used to say it s wrong to hurt even bad people。 Because they don t know any better； and because bad people sometimes bee good。
Not always； Sohrab。
He looked at me questioningly。
The man who hurt you； I knew him from many years ago； I said。 I guess you figured that out that from the conversation he and I had。 He。。。 he tried to hurt me once when I was your age； but your father saved me。 Your father was very brave and he was always rescuing me from trouble； standing up for me。 So one day the bad man hurt your father instead。 He hurt him in a very bad way； and I。。。 I couldn t save your father the way he had saved me。
Why did people want to hurt my father？ Sohrab said in a wheezy little voice。 He was never mean to anyone。
You re right。 Your father was a good man。 But that s what I m trying to tell you； Sohrab jan。 That there are bad people in this world； and sometimes bad people stay bad。 Sometimes you have to stand up to them。 What you did to that man is what I should have done to him all those years ago。 You gave him what he deserved； and he deserved even more。
Do you think Father is disappointed in me？
I know he s not； I said。 You saved my life in Kabul。 I know he is very proud of you for that。
He wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt。 It burst a bubble of spittle that had formed on his lips。 He buried his face in his hands and wept a long time before he spoke again。 I miss Father； and Mother too； he croaked。 And I miss Sasa and Rahim Khan sahib。 But sometimes I m glad they re not 。。。 they re not here anymore。
Why？ I touched his arm。 He drew back。
Because…… he said； gasping and hitching between sobs； because I don t want them to see me。。。 I m so dirty。 He sucked in his breath and let it out in a long； wheezy cry。 I m so dirty and full of sin。
You re not dirty； Sohrab； I said。
Those men……
You re not dirty at all。
……they did things。。。 the bad man and the other two。。。 they did things。。。 did things to me。
You re not dirty； and you re not full of sin。 I touched his arm again and he drew away。 I reached again； gently； and pulled him to me。 I won t hurt you； I whispered。 I promise。 He resisted a lit tle。 Slackened。 He let me draw him to me and rested his head on my chest。 His little body convulsed in my arms with each sob。
A kinship exists between people who ve fed from the same breast。 Now； as the boy s pain soaked through my shirt； I saw that a kinship had taken root between us too。 What had happened in that room with Assef had irrevocably bound us。
I d been looking for the right time； the right moment； to ask the question that had been buzzing around in my head and keep ing me up at night。 I decided the moment was now； right here； right now； with the bright lights of the house of God shining on us。
Would you like to e live in America with me and my wife？
He didn t answer。 He sobbed into my shirt and I let him。
FOR A WEEK； neither one of us mentioned what I had asked him； as if the question hadn t been posed at all。 Then one day； Sohrab and I took a taxicab to the Daman…e…Koh Viewpoint……or the hem of the mountain。 Perched midway up the Margalla Hills； it gives a panoramic view of Islamabad； its rows of clean； tree…lined avenues and white houses。 The driver told us we could see the presidential palace from up there。 If it has rained and the air is clear； you can even see past Rawalpindi； he said。 I saw his eyes in his rearview mirror； skipping from Sohrab to me； back and forth； back and forth。 I saw my own face too。 It wasn t as swollen as before； but it had taken on a yellow tint from my assortment of fading bruises。
We sat on a bench in one of the picnic areas； in the shade of a gum tree。 It was a warm day； the sun perched high in a topaz blue sky。 On benches nearby； families snacked on samosas and pakoras。 Somewhere； a radio played a Hindi song I thought I remembered from an old movie； maybe Pakeeza。 Kids； many of them Sohrab s age； chased soccer balls； giggling； yelling。 I thought about the orphanage in Karteh…Seh； thought about the rat that had scurried between my feet in Zaman s office。 My chest tightened with a surge of unexpected anger at the way my countrymen were destroying their own land。
What？ Sohrab asked。 I forced a smile and told him it wasn t important。
We unrolled one of the hotel s bathroom towels on the picnic table and played panjpar on it。 It felt good being there； with my half brother s son； playing
cards； the warmth of the sun patting the back of my neck。 The song ended and another one started； one I didn t recognize。
Look； Sohrab said。 He was pointing to the sky with his cards。 I looked up； saw a hawk circling in the broad seamless sky。 Didn t know there were hawks in Islamabad； I said。
Me neither； he said； his eyes tracing the bird s circular flight。 Do they have them where you live？
San Francisco？ I guess so。 I can t say I ve seen too many； though。
Oh； he said。 I was hoping he d ask more； but he dealt another hand and asked if we could eat。 I opened the pap