A Thousand Splendid Suns

long to see the doctor, Tariq said. Everyone was shivering in line,
moaning, coughing, some with shit running down their legs, others too
tired or hungry or sick to make words.
"But he was a decent man, the doctor. He treated my mother, gave her
some pills, saved her life that winter."
That same winter, Tariq had cornered a kid.
"Twelve, maybe thirteen years old," he said evenly. "I held a shard of
glass to his throat and took his blanket from him. I gave it to my
mother."
He made a vow to himself, Tariq said, after his mother's illness, that
they would not spend another winter in camp. He'd work, save, move
them to an apartment in Peshawar with heating and clean water. When
spring came, he looked for work. From time to time, a truck came to
camp early in the morning and rounded up a couple of dozen boys, took
them to a field to move stones or an orchard to pick apples in exchange
for a little money, sometimes a blanket, a pair of shoes. But they never
wanted him, Tariq said.
"One look at my leg and it was over."
There were other jobs. Ditches to dig, hovels to build, water to carry,
feces to shovel from outhouses. But young men fought over these jobs,
and Tariq never stood a chance-Then he met a shopkeeper one day, that
fall of 1993.
"He offered me money to take a leather coat to Lahore. Not a lot but