I carried him to his bed； set him down。 Then I lay in my own bed； looking out the window at the purple sky over Islamabad。
THE SKY WAS A DEEP BLACK when the phone jolted me from sleep。 I rubbed my eyes and turned on the bedside lamp。 It was a little past 10：30 P。M。； I d been sleeping for almost three hours。 I picked up the phone。 Hello？
Call from America。 Mr。 Fayyaz s bored voice。
Thank you； I said。 The bathroom light was on； Sohrab was taking his nightly bath。 A couple of clicks and then Soraya：
Salaam！ She sounded excited。
How did the meeting go with the lawyer？
I told her what Omar Faisal had suggested。 Well； you can forget about it； she said。 We won t have to do that。
I sat up。 Rawsti？ Why； what s up？
I heard back from Kaka Sharif。 He said the key was getting Sohrab into the country。 Once he s in； there are ways of keeping him here。 So he made a few calls to his INS friends。 He called me back tonight and said he was almost certain he could get Sohrab a humanitarian visa。
No kidding？ I said。 Oh thank God！ Good ol Sharifjan！
I know。 Anyway； we ll serve as the sponsors。 It should all happen pretty quickly。 He said the visa would be good for a year； plenty of time to apply for an adoption petition。
It s really going to happen； Soraya； huh？
It looks like it； she said。 She sounded happy。 I told her I loved her and she said she loved me back。 I hung up。
Sohrab！ I called； rising from my bed。 I have great news。 I knocked on the bathroom door。 Sohrab！ Soraya jan just called from California。 We won t have to put you in the orphanage； Sohrab。 We re going to America； you and I。 Did you hear me？ We re going to America！
I pushed the door open。 Stepped into the bathroom。
Suddenly I was on my knees； screaming。 Screaming through my clenched teeth。 Screaming until I thought my throat would rip and my chest explode。
Later； they said I was still screaming when the ambulance arrived。
TWENTY…FIVE
They won t let me in。
I see them wheel him through a set of double doors and I follow。 I burst through the doors； the smell of iodine and peroxide hits me； but all I have time to see is two men wearing surgical caps and a woman in green huddling over a gurney。 A white sheet spills over the side of the gurney and brushes against grimy checkered tiles。 A pair of small； bloody feet poke out from under the sheet and I see that the big toenail on the left foot is chipped。 Then a tall； thickset man in blue presses his palm against my chest and he s pushing me back out through the doors； his wedding band cold on my skin。 I shove forward and I curse him； but he says you cannot be here； he says it in English； his voice polite but firm。 You must wait； he says； leading me back to the waiting area； and now the double doors swing shut behind him with a sigh and all I see is the top of the men s surgical caps through the doors narrow rectangular windows。
He leaves me in a wide； windowless corridor crammed with people sitting on metallic folding chairs set along the walls； others on the thin frayed carpet。 I want to scream again； and I remember the last time I felt this way； riding with Baba in the tank of the fuel truck； buried in the dark with the other refugees。 I want to tear myself from this place； from this reality rise up like a cloud and float away； melt into this humid summer night and dissolve somewhere far； over the hills。 But I am here； my legs blocks of concrete； my lungs empty of air； my throat burning。 There will be no floating away。 There will be no other reality tonight。 I close my eyes and my nostrils fill with the smells of the corridor； sweat and ammonia； rubbing alcohol and curry。 On the ceiling； moths fling themselves at the dull gray light tubes running the length of the corridor and I hear the papery flapping of their wings。 I hear chatter； muted sobbing； sniffling； someone moaning； someone else sighing； elevator doors opening with a bing； the operator paging someone in Urdu。
I open my eyes again and I know what I have to do。 I look around； my heart a jackhammer in my chest； blood thudding in my ears。 There is a dark little supply room to my left。 In it； I find what I need。 It will do。 I grab a white bedsheet from the pile of folded linens and carry it back to the corridor。 I see a nurse talking to a policeman near the restroom。 I take the nurse s elbow and pull； I want to know which way is west。 She doesn t understand and the lines on her face deepen when she frowns。 My throat aches and my eyes sting with sweat； each breath is like inhaling fire； and I think I am weeping。 I ask again。 I beg。 The policeman is the one who points。
I throw my makeshift _jai…namaz_； my prayer rug； on the floor and I get on my knees； lower my forehead to the ground； my tears soaking through the sheet。 I bow to the west。 Then I remember I haven t prayed for over fifteen years。 I have long forgotten the words。 But it doesn t matter； I will utter those few words I still remember： ？？La iflaha ii Allah； Muhammad u rasul ullah。 There is no God but Allah and Muhammad is His messenger。 I see now that Baba was wrong； there is a God； there always had been。 I see Him here； in the eyes of the people in this corridor of desperation。 This is the real house of God； this is where those who have lost God will find Him； not the white masjid with its bright diamond lights and towering minarets。 There is a God； there has to be； and now I will pray； I will pray that He forgive that I have neglected Him all of these years； forgive that I have betrayed； lied； and sinned with impunity only to turn to Him now in my hour of need； I pray that He is as merciful； benevolent； and graci