h。
He stopped and turned to me。 There is very little shelter here； almost no food； no clothes； no clean water。 What I have in ample supply here is children who ve lost their childhood。 But the tragedy is that these are the lucky ones。 We re filled beyond capacity and every day I turn away mothers who bring their children。 He took a step toward me。 You say there is hope for Sohrab？ I pray you don t lie； Agha。 But。。。 you may well be too late。
What do you mean？
Zaman s eyes shifted。 Follow me。
WHAT PASSED FOR THE DIRECTOR S OFFICE was four bare； cracked walls； a mat on the floor； a table； and two folding chairs。 As Zaman and I sat down； I saw a gray rat poke its head from a burrow in the wall and flit across the room。 I cringed when it sniffed at my shoes； then Zaman s； and scurried through the open door。
What did you mean it may be too late？ I said。
Would you like some chai？ I could make some。
Nay； thank you。 I d rather we talk。
Zaman tilted back in his chair and crossed his arms on his chest。 What I have to tell you is not pleasant。 Not to mention that it may be very dangerous。
For whom？
You。 Me。 And； of course； for Sohrab； if it s not too late already。
I need to know； I said。
He nodded。 So you say。 But first I want to ask you a question：
How badly do you want to find your nephew？
I thought of the street fights we d get into when we were kids； all the times Hassan used to take them on for me； two against one； sometimes three against one。 I d wince and watch； tempted to step in； but always stopping short； always held back by something。
I looked at the hallway； saw a group of kids dancing in a circle。 A little girl； her left leg amputated below the knee； sat on a ratty mattress and watched； smiling and clapping along with the other children。 I saw Farid watching the children too； his own mangled hand hanging at his side。 I remembered Wahid s boys and。。。 I realized something： I would not leave Afghanistan without finding Sohrab。 Tell me where he is； I said。
Zaman s gaze lingered on me。 Then he nodded； picked up a pencil； and twirled it between his fingers。 Keep my name out of it。
I promise。
He tapped the table with the pencil。 Despite your promise； I think I ll live to regret this； but perhaps it s just as well。 I m damned anyway。 But if something can be done for Sohrab。。。 I ll tell you because I believe you。 You have the look of a desperate man。 He was quiet for a long time。 There is a Talib official； he muttered。 He visits once every month or two。 He brings cash with him； not a lot； but better than nothing at all。 His shifty eyes fell on me； rolled away。 Usually he ll take a girl。 But not always。
And you allow this？ Farid said behind me。 He was going around the table； closing in on Zaman。
What choice do I have？ Zaman shot back。 He pushed himself away from the desk。
You re the director here； Farid said。 Your job is watch over these children。
There s nothing I can do to stop it。
You re selling children！ Farid barked。
Farid； sit down！ Let it go！ I said。 But I was too late。 Because suddenly Farid was leaping over the table。 Zaman s chair went flying as Farid fell on him and pinned him to the floor。 The director thrashed beneath Farid and made muffled screaming sounds。 His legs kicked a desk drawer free and sheets of paper spilled to the floor。
I ran around the desk and saw why Zaman s screaming was muffled： Farid was strangling him。 I grasped Farid s shoulders with both hands and pulled hard。 He snatched away from me。 That s enough！ I barked。 But Farid s face had flushed red； his lips pulled back in a snarl。 I m killing him！ You can t stop me！ I m killing him； he sneered。
Get off him！
I m killing him！ Something in his voice told me that if I didn t do something quickly I d witness my first murder。
The children are watching； Farid。 They re watching； I said。 His shoulder muscles tightened under my grip and； for a moment； I thought he d keep squeezing Zaman s neck anyway。 Then he turned around； saw the children。 They were standing silently by the door； holding hands； some of them crying。 I felt Farid s muscles slacken。 He dropped his hands； rose to his feet。 He looked down on Zaman and dropped a mouthful of spit on his face。 Then he walked to the door and closed it。
Zaman struggled to his feet； blotted his bloody lips with his sleeve； wiped the spit off his cheek。 Coughing and wheezing； he put on his skullcap； his glasses； saw both lenses had cracked； and took them off。 He buried his face in his hands。 None of us said anything for a long time。
He took Sohrab a month ago； Zaman finally croaked； hands still shielding his face。
You call yourself a director？ Farid said。
Zaman dropped his hands。 I haven t been paid in over six months。 I m broke because I ve spent my life s savings on this orphanage。 Everything I ever owned or inherited I sold to run this godforsaken place。 You think I don t have family in Pakistan and Iran？ I could have run like everyone else。 But I didn t。 I stayed。 I stayed because of them。 He pointed to the door。 If I deny him one child； he takes ten。 So I let him take one and leave the judging to Allah。 I swallow my pride and take his goddamn filthy。。。 dirty money。 Then I go to the bazaar and buy food for the children。
Farid dropped his eyes。
What happens to the children he takes？ I asked。
Zaman rubbed his eyes with his forefinger and thumb。 Some times they e back。
Who is he？ How do we find him？ I said。
Go to Ghazi Stadium tomorrow。 You ll see him at halftime。 He ll be the one wearing black sunglasses。 He picked up his broken glasses and turned them in his