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the same mountain trail that brought me here. Some of them wear blankets. There’s an especially plump white animal, not much more than a lamb, with a bright crimson blanket embroidered in black. They scatter over the field, looking for pasture, weaving in and out of strands of mist.
    Dawn is cool and silent. The black silhouette of the fort is more like a dream than reality. When I clap my hands for warmth, it attracts the attention of the sheep. Their quest for pasture in this arid plain is proving fruitless. I call out softly to them and they gather around. In the solitude of the plain, I enjoy their inquisitive company. It reminds me of my childhood years shepherding flocks in highland pastures. Soon the white lamb is frolicking by my side: I stroke the fuzz underneath its chin, and rub its muzzle in the manner that sheep like best. A larger animal, no doubt its mother, nuzzles it as we play, and I stroke both of them.
    A red sun rises in the gray sky. I watch it with weary eyes and feel as if I’ve been here for a very long time. Fatigue has lent a touch of the illusory to everything. It’s as if I’m living on the sharp edge of a knife. The slightest relaxation in my vigilance threatens an onslaught of held-back tears. At times, I feel feverish, especially now, with the warm, soft lamb in my grasp. So I force myself to attend to the task at hand, mute and exhausted.
    Without letting go of the lamb, I draw out the knife concealed in the inner lining of my bughra. Forcefully yanking back its neck, I plunge the knife with brutal swiftness across its throat. It doesn’t even have the chance to bleat but simply hammers its hooves against the earth. A stream of blood spurts into the air and indiscriminately sprays the terrified flock. It drenches the mother, who cries out loudly,the whites of her eyes showing. She lurches forward, but I push her away with one hand. Blood continues to spurt from the severed arteries and splashes the sleeves of my bughra and my veil. I hold the lamb down with all my strength until it stops kicking and shudders to stillness. Then I drop the knife and drive the mother away with my fists, leaving bloody marks on her pelt. Still she circles around, calling out in distress, while the rest of the flock scatters. Finally, even she moves away, and I rest my violently shaking hands on the dead animal, my breath coming in bursts. To kill in these circumstances requires nerves of iron, which I do not have. There’s blood, blood everywhere.
    Only then do I hear the commotion from the fort. There’s a gaggle of soldiers clustered behind sandbags, but they’re too far away to register what happened. Instead, it is Masood the Tajik who comes racing out, skidding to a stop just inside the barbed wire fence. He looks bewildered.
    I point to the lamb and call out: This is in exchange for your masters’ gift of food. We Pashtuns also have our traditions of hospitality. Now we’re even.
    His face lights up in perfect comprehension. He gives an excited laugh.
    This was well done! he exclaims. I will certainly convey your message.
    He casts an appraising eye on the lamb. We will feast tonight, he adds. Do you want me to take the lamb to them?
    No. Tell your captain I would like to give it to him personally.
    I will do that. He’s meeting with his officers, but I will find a way to tell him.
    He turns to leave, then hesitates. Four soldiers are hurrying purposefully toward him, led by the hard-faced sergeant from yesterday. He begins yelling at Masood even before they close in on him. The Tajik points to the lamb and begins to explain something to them in their language, but the sergeant cuts him off angrily and escorts him back to the fortress. Remarkably, in all of this, I am ignored almostas if I were invisible. I watch them leave, and am left to wonder why their wrath was directed at their own interpreter and not at me.
    Not knowing what to expect next, I wait in the light of the rising sun. Slowly, the