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also knew what she thought. It had become too dangerous. The separations were too long; he had a home to return to, and they had a life to build, and too little time.
           So he‟d agreed to the request she hadn‟t quite voiced; he was doing his last rotation. He would celebrate his 50 birthday at home in three months, and then stay there through the next birthday, and the one after that.
           And she seemed glad, but she was edgy still, maybe even more so when he‟d agreed to quit, thus tacitly acknowledging the dangers. He detected it in her voice when they‟d spoken a couple of hours ago by phone, as he began his morning, as she headed into sleep.
           "There was a bombing in Islamabad a few hours ago," she‟d said.
           "Yes, I heard."
           "Skip going there. Just come directly back."
           "I‟ll be fine."
           She made a sound that indicated skepticism. "I feel like a military bride, Todd. And what are we doing still there? Really, at this point?"
           "Helping people who need it."
           "That sounds so damned sanctimonious," she murmured.
    "I‟m sorry. But I have to finish up properly. For them. For me."
    The line went silent for a moment. "Have they named your replacement yet?" she asked.
    "Not yet."
    "But they will, yes? You won‟t offer to stay on for one more rotation?"
    "No, Clari. No."
           She released a noisy sigh of air into the phone receiver. "Okay, then," she said. And she‟d tried—they both had—to lighten the conversation, to talk about smaller things. But it hadn‟t worked; he felt the space gaping between them and knew she did too by her tone when she told him she loved him. He repeated it back, and they said goodbye.
           Now, he realized he wanted to meet Zarlasht‟s needs because he c ouldn‟t meet Clari‟s. Illogical, of course. But it was as if showing kindness to Zarlasht could make up for hurting his wife, one in exchange for the other. He needed to consider Zarlasht independently. He would try, on the walk back, with his ice cream.
           But the line, Todd noticed, did not seem to be moving, though the vendors were bent over their sweet, cold tubs. "Ice cream is popular today," he said to the man in front of him, speaking in Pashto.
           The man turned toward Todd. He was about 25 years old. He wore a blue-gray turban and a brown vest over his s alwar kameez an d his eyebrows were unusually thick, like angry storm clouds hovering over his eyes. "It is the best ice cream in Kabul," he said in a way that seemed too serious, so weighted that Todd grinned, thinking for a second he must be kidding.
           Then the man turned abruptly away, leaving Todd to stare up at the high, teasing blue of the sky and think about how Afghanistan, even after all these years, had remained just beyond his reach of comprehension. While this concerned him occasionally, it also inspired him and was, in fact, something he loved: the rich, unknowable quality of living here that made his own life feel so much more consequential. A rush of gratitude flooded him, warming his stomach, making him smile faintly. And this was exactly the expression on his face at the moment of the improbable crack of thunder that preceded the dropping of two glass ice cream cups, and then the silence.

    Danil, September 4th

           High clouds, a distant rumble. A shout-out from a storm on the approach tonight, a summer storm pushing its way into the crowded Brooklyn streets from beyond some border, like an audacious illegal immigrant or a country girl thumbing her nose at the pretensions of civilization. Danil had maybe half an hour before it broke, and he planned to use the minutes well. His right arm blurred as he shook the can so energetically it made his whole body bounce. If some half-sleeper a few stories above the street in the Albany House II projects were to pause on the way to