They passed through poorly lit hallways where barefoot children stepped aside and watched. They had disheveled hair or shaved scalps.
They wore sweaters with frayed sleeves, ragged jeans whose knees had worn down to strings, coats patched with duct tape.
Laila smelled soap and talcum, ammonia and urine, and rising apprehension in Aziza, who had begun whimpering.
Laila had a glimpse of the yard: weedy lot, rickety swing set, old tires, a deflated basketball.
The rooms they passed were bare, the windows covered with sheets of plastic.
A boy darted from one of the rooms and grabbed Laila's elbow, and tried to climb up into her arms.
An attendant, who was cleaning up what looked like a puddle of urine, put down his mop and pried the boy off.
Zaman seemed gently proprietary with the orphans. He patted the heads of some, as he passed by,
said a cordial word or two to them, tousled their hair, without condescension.
The children welcomed his touch. They all looked at him, Laila thought, in hope of approval.
He showed them into his office, a room with only three folding chairs, and a disorderly desk with piles of paper scattered atop it.
“You're from Herat,” Zaman said to Mariam. “I can tell from your accent.”
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