He'd work, save, move them to an apartment in Peshawar with heating and clean water.
When spring came, he looked for work. From time to time, a truck came to camp early in the morning
and rounded up a couple of dozen boys, took them to a field to move stones
or an orchard to pick apples in exchange for a little money, sometimes a blanket, a pair of shoes.
But they never wanted him, Tariq said. “One look at my leg and it was over.”
There were other jobs. Ditches to dig, hovels to build, water to carry, feces to shovel from outhouses.
But young men fought over these jobs, and Tariq never stood a chance. Then he met a shopkeeper one day, that fall of 1993.
“He offered me money to take a leather coat to Lahore. Not a lot but enough, enough for one or maybe two months' apartment rent.”
The shopkeeper gave him a bus ticket, Tariq said, and the address of a street corner near the Lahore Rail Station
where he was to deliver the coat to a friend of the shopkeeper's.
“I knew already. Of course I knew,” Tariq said. “He said that if I got caught, I was on my own,
that I should remember that he knew where my mother lived. But the money was too good to pass up. And winter was coming again.”
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