such as who else was there with him worrying about wolves eating goats.
But Tariq only went on nodding. “I'm sorry about your parents too,” he said. “You heard.”
“I spoke to some neighbors earlier,” he said. A pause, during which Laila wondered what else the neighbors had told him.
“I don't recognize anybody. From the old days, I mean.” “They're all gone. There's no one left you'd know.”
“I don't recognize Kabul.” “Neither do I,” Laila said. “And I never left.”
“Mammy has a new friend,” Zalmai said after dinner later that same night, after Tariq had left. “A man.” Rasheed looked up. “Does she, now?”
TARIQ ASKED IF HE COULD SMOKE. They had stayed awhile at the Nasir Bagh refugee camp near Peshawar, Tariq said, tapping ash into a saucer.
There were sixty thousand Afghans living there already when he and his parents arrived.
“It wasn't as bad as some of the other camps like, God forbid, Jalozai,” he said.
“I guess at one point it was even some kind of model camp, back during the Cold War,
a place the West could point to and prove to the world they weren't just funneling arms into Afghanistan.”
But that had been during the Soviet war, Tariq said, the days of jihad and worldwide interest and generous funding and visits from Margaret Thatcher.
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