relief. But he hadnât found a trace of Mariam.
âWe should have stayed in Peshawar, then,â said Zafoona, turning her face away from the food.
âWe couldnât, jaan ,â said Habib patiently. âWeâd delayed as long as we could. If we hadnât left, our asylum papers would not have been held for us. Then we would have been a family without a country to call home. We couldnât have returned to Afghanistan, and we couldnât have stayed in Pakistan.â
âBut sheâs out there all by herself,â insisted Zafoona.
âMother,â whispered Noor, leaning across the aisle toward them. âDad did what he could.â
Zafoonaâs reddened eyes filled with tears, and she huddled in her woolen shawl.
â Jaan , your cousin Nargis has a crew of men in Peshawar looking for any news of Mariam,â said Habib, rubbing Zafoonaâs hands to warm them. âNargis said sheâd call us first thing if she learns anything. And Professor Sahib is headed to Jalalabad with his sons to search along the Afghan border.â
âButâ,â began Zafoona.
âMother,â Noor interrupted, âMariam is an American citizen, so the U.S. consulate is keeping an eye out for her too. And I helped Khala Nargis post Mariamâs pictures at the International Rescue Committeeâs office. If she comes over the border, they will find her.â
âThere are so many people looking for her, even your old schoolmate we ran into at the United Nations RefugeeAgencyâs office,â added Habib. âShe will notify us if they or other local nongovernmental agencies dealing with displaced persons spot her.â
Zafoona looked away from them and pursed her quivering lips. Noor settled back in her seat and sighed.
Fadi rolled the foil off his steaming chicken and, without much interest, removed the plastic silverware from its protective plastic bag. Watching the spoon slide into his hand, he paused, bewildered. Mariamâs voice called out to him as if from a haze.
âFadi!â shouted Mariam. âI want the spoon!â
âOh, all right,â grumbled Fadi, handing her the wooden spoon while he kept the steel fork with the crooked prong.
The sun was just about to set and the two of them were in the backyard, crouched under the lone plum tree. In less than twelve hours they would be in a taxi, headed toward Jalalabad. Fadi glanced back at the house as the last of the sunâs rays glinted across the expanse of windows, tinting them silver. Withered rosebushes grew along the sides of the house, planted years ago by his grandfather. Fadi wondered if heâd ever see any of it again.
âAre you ready?â Mariam interrupted his morose thoughts, an eager smile playing on her lips.
âYes, Iâm ready,â grumbled Fadi. Heâd been cornered by her earlier that day, and in order to escape her chattering on and on about not leaving her treasure behind, heâd agreed to help.
For a moment Mariamâs smile faltered as she looked around the base of the scraggly tree. She pooched out her cheeks and inspected the trunk, parched and peeling from the drought. Her eyes widened in alarm. âI donât remember where I buried it,â she squeaked.
Fadi released a pent-up breath. âMariam,â he said quietly, âthereâs still packing to do, and weâre leaving really early in the morning. Are you sure this treasure of yours is so important?â
âYes,â said Mariam, her lower lip trembling.
âOh, all right. Donât cry,â said Fadi. âJust pick a spot and start digging.â
For the next hour, aided by the light of the full moon and a sputtering candle Fadi had found in the empty house, they crawled around in the dirt, excavating dozens of shallow holes. His fingernails caked in soil, Fadi was about to call it quits when the earth loosened around a small tin box in their