Dr.Richard shudders slightly.
“My father was not so lucky.Those men used machetes.My father was a literature professor.Did I ever tell you that?He liked to wear sweater vests and debate poetry.I could see his teeth through the gashes in his face.His left ear, totally gone.The tip of his nose… what kind of men cut off someone’s nose?”
“Sabera—”
“Head wounds bleed.I didn’t know it then, but I’ve seen it working here.Meaning maybe Farshid wasn’t as grievously wounded as I believed.He had been knocked unconscious, left for dead, but wasn’t actually killed.It’s possible.”
Dr.Richard doesn’t answer.
“You don’t have to believe me,” I allow at last.“I know Isaad doesn’t.Just tell me: if Farshid didn’t die that day, if by some miracle my brother lived, what would’ve happened to him?”
Dr.Richard pauses, seems to genuinely consider my question.We’re outside, locking up the clinic for the evening.Even this time of night, the camp teems with activity.Though now most of it’s furtive, and the low, muffled noises carry dark tones of warning—whimpers here, groans there, an occasional sharp scream.
I peer into the dimly lit space, hazy with smoke from campfires.I’m looking for my mother, who has a tendency to stay tucked at the edges of my vision.I haven’t spied her for days.Do ghosts take vacations?Have other places to be, other souls to haunt?Or do they simply grow tired of walking among the living, roaming an endless buffet from which they can never eat?
I don’t want to remain here one minute more as a living person; I certainly wouldn’t choose this place to haunt once I’m dead.
“Your brother would’ve been taken to a hospital,” Dr.Richard replies at last.“Upon recovery, he’d try to make it to the border, like you did.Meaning it’s possible he’s at another camp.You could post his name on the bulletin board out front.Maybe someone has news of him.”
“And if he couldn’t make it to the border?A young man already attacked by the Taliban once and identified as an enemy of the state?”
“Go underground?Hide out with other members of your family, or friends?”
I like this idea, the fantasy of it, but I can already see Jamil, standing behind Dr.Richard, shaking his head.In the corner of the room, Habib smirks.Yes,his expression tells me.Believe infairy tales.I will enjoy watching your eventual disillusionment break you.
I understand the truth of that sentiment.“The Taliban don’t kill everyone immediately,” I state.For having worked in the clinic for nearly a year, I haven’t just seen things, I’ve heard things as well.
A slight hesitation.Dr.Richard shakes his head.
“I’ve caught stories of torture camps,” I continue.“Caves where they chain up men, women, and children for hours, days, months.Farshid could be someplace like that.”
“If so, then surely you understand, Sabera—”
“He would find a way to live!Trust me.If there was someone who could survive, it would be Farshid!Is there a way to identify these camps?Learn where they are, get a list of prisoners?”
“I doubt the Taliban are that forthcoming—”
“Of course not!But they don’t have to give out the information for it to be known.Satellite footage, drone activities, glowing red silhouettes captured on infrared.”
“How do you know—”
“Governments are always watching.And spying and selling and wheeling and dealing.”My voice picks up.I don’t mean to grow so angry, but the emotion, like so many these days, washes over me in a giant wave.“We are nothing but pawns to them—you, me, everyone in this rodent-infested hell!What’s that saying—the boys throw rocks in jest but the frog dies in earnest?They are the children; we are the frogs.Throughout all of human history.Again and again and again.”
I feel a brush against my cheek.Jamil trying to sooth.Or maybe it is my mother, offering a rare moment of comfort.
I’m pacing.Outside this impossibly understaffed, underresourced clinic, where sweet, innocent Omid died and I killed my own blood relative, and now I can feel Habib starting to stir,pushing away from the wall in genuine interest, preparing to enjoy the show.
“Why?”I demand to know.From Dr.Richard, from my encircling ghosts, from the universe in general.“Why, why, why!”
“Sabera.”Dr.Richard touches my arm.“Take a deep breath; you need to breathe…”
“It’s been over a year.My country, gone.My family, gone!And for what?Can you tell me?Forwhat?”
I’m panting.Up is down, down is up.I don’t know… I don’t understand…
Isaad has appeared.He stands next to Dr.Richard as they confer in low tones.There will be more meds.There are always more meds.
The Prozac protocol.I have watched it play out at the clinic countless times.From raging nightmares to vacant stares to trembling anxiety, have a Prozac.And another and another.Take three, they’re small.
