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We re searching for this boy。
He gave the photo a cursory glance。 I am sorry。 I have never seen him。
You barely looked at the picture； my friend； Farid said。 Why not take a closer look？
Lotfan； I added。 Please。
The man behind the door took the picture。 Studied it。 Handed it back to me。 Nay； sorry。 I know just about every single child in this institution and that one doesn t look familiar。 Now； if you ll permit me； I have work to do。 He closed the door。 Locked the bolt。
I rapped on the door with my knuckles。 Agha！ Agha； please open the door。 We don t mean him any harm。
I told you。 He s not here； his voice came from the other side。 Now； please go away。
Farid stepped up to the door； rested his forehead on it。 Friend； we are not with the Taliban； he said in a low； cautious voice。 The man who is with me wants to take this boy to a safe place。
I e from Peshawar； I said。 A good friend of mine knows an American couple there who run a charity home for children。 I felt the man s presence on the other side of the door。 Sensed him standing there； listening； hesitating； caught between suspicion and hope。 Look； I knew Sohrab s father； I said。 His name was Hassan。 His mother s name was Farzana。 He called his grand mother Sasa。 He knows how to read and write。 And he s good with the slingshot。 There s hope for this boy； Agha； a way out。 Please open the door。
From the other side； only silence。
I m his half uncle； I said。
A moment passed。 Then a key rattled in the lock。 The man s
narrow face reappeared in the crack。 He looked from me to Farid and back。 You were wrong about one thing。
What？
He s great with the slingshot。
I smiled。
He s inseparable from that thing。 He tucks it in the waist of his pants everywhere he goes。
THE MAN WHO LET US IN introduced himself as Zaman； the director of the orphanage。 I ll take you to my office； he said。
We followed him through dim； grimy hallways where barefoot children dressed in frayed sweaters ambled around。 We walked past rooms with no floor covering but matted carpets and windows shuttered with sheets of plastic。 Skeleton frames of steel beds； most with no mattress； filled the rooms。
How many orphans live here？ Farid asked。
More than we have room for。 About two hundred and fifty； Zaman said over his shoulder。 But they re not all yateem。 Many of them have lost their fathers in the war； and their mothers can t feed them because the Taliban don t allow them to work。 So they bring their children here。 He made a sweeping gesture with his hand and added ruefully； This place is better than the street； but not that much better。 This building was never meant to be lived in……it used to be a storage warehouse for a carpet manufacturer。 So there s no water heater and they ve let the well go dry。 He dropped his voice。 I ve asked the Taliban for money to dig a new well more times than I remember and they just twirl their rosaries and tell me there is no money。 No money。 He snickered。
He pointed to a row of beds along the wall。 We don t have enough beds； and not enough mattresses for the