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think Soraya s driving because Soraya never drives this fast。 I want to say something to this child……it seems very impor tant that I do。 But I don t remember what I want to say； or why it might have been important。 Maybe I want
to tell him to stop cry ing； that everything will be all right now。 Maybe not。 For some reason I can t think of； I want to thank the child。
Faces。 They re all wearing green hats。 They slip in and out of view They talk rapidly； use words I don t understand。 I hear other voices； other noises； beeps and alarms。 And always more faces。 Peering down。 I don t remember any of them； except for the one with the gel in his hair and the Clark Gable mustache； the one with the Africa stain on his cap。 Mister Soap Opera Star。 That s funny。 I want to laugh now。 But laughing hurts too。
I fade out。
SHE SAYS HER NAME IS AISHA； like the prophet s wife。 Her graying hair is parted in the middle and tied in a ponytail； her nose pierced with a stud shaped like the sun。 She wears bifocals that make her eyes bug out。 She wears green too and her hands are soft。 She sees me looking at her and smiles。 Says something in English。 Something is jabbing at the side of my chest。
I fade out。
A MAN IS STANDING at my bedside。 I know him。 He is dark and lanky； has a long beard。 He wears a hat……what are those hats called？ Pakols？ Wears it tilted to one side like a famous person whose name escapes me now。 I know this man。 He drove me somewhere a few years ago。 I know him。 There is something wrong with my mouth。 I hear a bubbling sound。
I fade out。
MY RIGHT ARM BURNS。 The woman with the bifocals and sun…shaped stud is hunched over my arm； attaching a clear plastic tubing to it。 She says it s the Potassium。 It stings like a bee； no？ she says。 It does。 What s her name？ Something to do with a prophet。 I know her too from a few years ago。 She used to wear her hair in a ponytail。 Now it s pulled back； tied in a bun。 Soraya
wore her hair like that the first time we spoke。 When was that？ Last week？
Aisha！ Yes。
There is something wrong with my mouth。 And that thing jab bing at my chest。
I fade out。
WE ARE IN THE SULAIMAN MOUNTAINS of Baluchistan and Baba is wrestling the black bear。 He is the Baba of my child hood； _Toophan agha_； the towering specimen of Pashtun might； not the withered man under the blankets； the man with the sunken cheeks and hollow eyes。 They roll over a patch of green grass； man and beast； Baba s curly brown hair flying。 The bear roars； or maybe it s Baba。 Spittle and blood fly； claw and hand swipe。 They fall to the ground with a loud thud and Baba is sitting on the bear s chest； his fingers digging in its snout。 He looks up at me and I see。 He s me。 I am wrestling the bear。
I wake up。 The lanky dark man is back at my bedside。 His name is Farid； I remember now。 And with him is the child from the car。 His face reminds me of the sound of bells。 I am thirsty。
I fade out。
I keep fading in and out。
THE NAME OF THE MAN with the Clark Gable mustache turned out to be Dr。 Faruqi。 He wasn t a soap opera star at all； but a head…and…neck surgeon； though I kep