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ar the night of our khastegari； when she d told me about her past。
By the time I was done with my story； she was weeping。
What do you think？ I said。
I don t know what to think； Amir。 You ve told me so much all at once。
I realize that。
I heard her blowing her nose。 But I know this much： You have to bring him home。 I want you to。
Are you sure？ I said； closing my eyes and smiling。
Am I sure？ she said。 Amir； he s your qaom； your family； so he s my qaom too。 Of course I m sure。 You can t leave him to the streets。 There was a short pause。 What s he like？
I looked over at Sohrab sleeping on the bed。 He s sweet； in a solemn kind of way。
Who can blame him？ she said。 I want to see him； Amir。 I really do。
Soraya？
Yeah。
Dostet darum。 I love you。
I love you back； she said。 I could hear the smile in her words。 And be careful。
I will。 And one more thing。 Don t tell your parents who he is。 If they need to know； it should e from me。
Okay。
We hung up。
THE LAWN OUTSIDE the American embassy in Islamabad was neatly mowed； dotted with circular clusters of flowers； bordered by razor…straight hedges。 The building itself was like a lot of buildings in Islamabad： flat and white。 We passed through several road blocks to get there and three different security officials conducted a body search on me after the wires in my jaws set off the metal
detectors。 When we finally stepped in from the heat； the airconditioning hit my face like a splash of ice water。 The secretary in the lobby； a fifty…something； lean…faced blond woman； smiled when I gave her my name。 She wore a beige blouse and black slacks……the first woman I d seen in weeks dressed in something other than a burqa or a shalwar…kameez。 She looked me up on the appointment list； tapping the eraser end of her pencil on the desk。 She found my name and asked me to take a seat。
Would you like some lemonade？ she asked。
None for me； thanks； I said。
How about your son？
Excuse me？
The handsome young gentleman； she said； smiling at Sohrab。
Oh。 That d be nice； thank you。
Sohrab and I sat on the black leather sofa across the reception desk； next to a tall American flag。 Sohrab picked up a magazine from the glass…top coffee table。 He flipped the pages； not really looking at the pictures。
What？ Sohrab said。
Sorry？
You re smiling。
I was thinking about you； I said。
He gave a nervous smile。 Picked up another magazine and flipped through it in under thirty seconds。
Don t be afraid； I said； touching his arm。 These people are friendly。 Relax。 I could have used my own advice。 I kept shifting in my seat； untying and retying my shoelaces。 The secretary placed a tall glass of lemonade with ice on the coffee table。 There you go。
Sohrab smiled shyly。 Thank you very much； he said in English。 It came out as Tank you wery match。 It was the only English he knew； he d told me； that and Have a nice day。
She laughed。 You re most wele。 She walked back to her desk； high heels clicking on the floor。
Have a nice day； Sohrab said。
RAYMOND ANDREWS was a short fellow with small hands； nails perfectly trimmed； wedding band on the ring finger。 He gave me a curt little shake； it felt like squeezing a sparrow。 Those are the hands that hold our fates； I thought as Sohrab and I seated our selves across from his desk。 A _Les Mis閞ables_ poster was nailed to the wall behind Andrews next to a topographical map of the U。S。 A pot of tomato plants basked in the sun on the windowsill。
Smoke？ he asked； his voice a deep baritone that was at odds with his slight stature。
No thanks； I said； not caring at all for the way Andrews s eyes barely gave Sohrab a glance； or the way he didn t look at me when he spoke。 He pulled open a desk drawer and lit a cigarette from a half…empty pack。 He also produced a bottle of lotion from the same drawer。 He looked at his tomato plants as he rubbed lotion into his hands； cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth。 Then he closed the drawer； put his elbows on the desktop； and exhaled。 So； he said； crinkling his gray eyes against the smoke； tell me your story。
I felt like Jean Valjean sitting across from Javert。 I reminded myself that I was on American soil now； that this guy was on my side； that he got paid for helping people like me。 I want to adopt this boy； take him back to the States with me； I said。
Tell me your story； he repeated； crushing a flake of ash on the neatly arranged desk with his index finger； flicking it into the trash can。
I gave him the version I had worked out in my head since I d hung up with Soraya。 I had gone into Afghanistan to bring back my half brother s son。 I had found the boy in squalid conditions； wasting away in an orphanage。 I had paid the orphanage director a sum of money and withdrawn the boy。 Then I had brought him to Pakistan。
You are the boy s half uncle？
Yes。
He checked his watch。 Leaned and turned the tomato plants on the sill。 Know anyone who can attest to that？
Yes； but I don t know where he is now。
He turned to me and nodded。 I tried to read his face and couldn t。 I wondered if he d ever tried those little hands of his at poker。
I assume getting your jaws wired isn t the latest fashion statement； he said。 We were in trouble； Sohrab and I； and I knew it then。 I told him I d gotten mugged in Peshawar。
Of course； he said。 Cleared his throat。 Are you Muslim？
Yes。
Practicing？
Yes。 In truth； I didn t remember the last time I had laid my forehead to the ground in prayer。 Then I did remember： the day Dr。 Amani gave Baba his prognosis。 I had kneeled on the prayer rug； remembering only fragments of verses I had learned in school。
Helps your case some； but not much； he said； scratching a spot on the flawless part in his sandy hair。
What do you mean？ I asked。 I reached for Sohrab s hand； intertwined my fingers with his。 Sohrab looked uncertainly from me to Andrews。
There s a long answer and I m sure I ll end up giving it to you。 You want the short one first？
I guess； I said。
Andrews crushed his cigarette； his lips pursed。 Give it up。
I m sorry？
Your petition to adopt this