“Yes,” he said, squinting. “I wonder if you can help us. Can you do us a favor?”
He passed the boy to his wife. He and Laila stepped away. “What is it, hamshira?”
She was encouraged to see that he had soft eyes, a kind face. She told him the story that she and Mariam had agreed on.
She was a biwa, she said, a widow. She and her mother and daughter had no one left in Kabul. They were going to Peshawar to stay with her uncle.
“You want to come with my family,” the young man said. “I know it's zahmat for you. But you look like a decent brother, and I—”
“Don't worry, hamshira. I understand. It's no trouble. Let me go and buy your tickets.”
“Thank you, brother. This is sawab, a good deed. God will remember.” She fished the envelope from her pocket beneath the burqa and passed it to him.
In it was eleven hundred afghanis, or about half of the money she'd stashed over the past year plus the sale of the ring.
He slipped the envelope in his trouser pocket. “Wait here.” She watched him enter the station. He returned half an hour later.
“It's best I hold on to your tickets,” he said. “The bus leaves in one hour, at eleven. We'll all board together.”
“My name is Wakil. If they ask—and they shouldn't—I'll tell them you're my cousin.” Laila gave him their names, and he said he would remember.
“Stay close,” he said. They sat on the bench adjacent to Wakil and his family's. It was a sunny, warm morning,
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