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a savage, isolated war.
    We fight against the Taliban to uphold Pashtunwali, said Taqbir. The Special Lashkar protects the border and keeps men like Gazan in their place.
    So you fight for the government?
    We fight for the nangof our homes, but for no government, answered Taqbir. He stuck his chest out in his clean American uniform.
    So I am to serve in the Special Lashkar?
    You are lucky for a chance to strike back at Gazan, answered Taqbir. In badalthere is nangfor you, and for what has been taken from your brother. As long as you fight, Ali will be cared for here.
    I had no one but Ali. To care for him was my single alternative. And single alternatives have a logic all their own. Men go to war with such a logic, and my thinking was that of a young man, clear and unclouded by experience and doubt.
    When do I leave? I replied.
    Taqbir reached into his cargo pocket. He handed me a slip of paper no bigger than a matchbook. You know of the American base near here, the one outside Sharana village? he said.
    I nodded. The helicopters from FOB Sharana often flew over Orgun. Following their flight patterns, the FOB was a day’s walk north, or so I’d heard.
    Go to its back gate tomorrow, he said. Call this number. Tell them your name and that you are going to Shkin.
    You aren’t coming with me? I asked.
    Bring only what you must, he said, seeming not to hear me. Everything will be provided.
    Then I will meet you in Shkin, I said.
    What makes you think I work at that firebase? Taqbir spoke his words coldly.
    I thought you were a soldier, I replied.
    I am, he said, but not a common one as you will be. My work is here, and you should thank me for it. There are others who would welcome such generosity.
    I stared at Taqbir. In his hard face and crisp uniform I could see a part of my future, but I understood none of it. I was now a servant, maybe not to Taqbir, but to men like him.
    I answered: I’ll be there and am grateful.
    He nodded, still taking his measure of me.
    We shook hands and Taqbir wished me luck and long life. I walked toward the hospital’s main double doors. As I put my shoulder into one, I looked back. Standing at the far end of the corridor, I saw Taqbir join the American with the blond beard. Together they spoke quietly. Then the two strolled off in search of another recruit.

T hat night, I slept in the hills among the orphaned boys. I lacked the courage to visit Ali for a last time, and in the morning I departed. I walked without rest, guided by the helicopters that passed steadily above. When the sun set, I could see FOB Sharana spread low across the dust of the plain and the small airfield on it. A ditch ran around the FOB. The dirt from it filled the HESCO barriers of the perimeter wall. These were stacked three high with coils of concertina wire running on top. Their steel frames and burlap linings had splits and tears. This made the wall sag. In places the earth in the HESCOs spilled back into the ditch from where it was dug. In the back of the FOB, I found the HESCOs laid out in a serpentine. These led to a tall steel gate. A light from a tower shined onto the ground in front of the gate. Under the spotlight, the ground was bright as day. Next to it stood an Afghan guard in a plywood booth. He noticed me just before I stepped onto the ground where the light shone. He stepped into his booth and grabbed a radio.
    I froze.
    Slowly I took out my phone and called Taqbir’s contact. A voice answered: How did you get this number?
    I am Aziz, I said, a friend of Taqbir’s. I am at the entrance.
    Hold on, said the voice. It sounded as if the phone had been set down. I stood and watched the guard. Then the voice returned: Yes, Aziz, I will call you back.
    The phone disconnected.
    I waited. The gate guard continued to watch me from across the serpentine. He began to talk into his radio. I wanted to leave. Then my phone rang.
    Tell the guard that you are on Flight 873 to Shkin, said the voice.
    That is all? I