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least—much later, in her revised world, as pieces of her future settled into new patterns of fleetingness.
            What do we do now? What do I do now?

    Mandy, September 4th

           Mandy understood immediately how secure this guesthouse was. Even though she was a harmless-looking middle-aged woman who arrived with two uniformed American soldiers, the guard would not let her in until he‟d summoned Hammon and gotten his okay.
           Hammon was 6 foot 3 with short hair, black leather boots, an easy walk and biceps three times the size of hers. He pushed back his sunglasses so she could see his eyes and, though she‟d never met him before, greeted her warmly. "Mrs. Wilkens, come in," he said, waving an offhanded goodbye to the soldiers as he revealed a strong British accent. "Let me show you to your room. Rumi—he‟s our cook—should have dinner ready soon. Rumi‟s a pro; you can safely eat even salad inside this compound. He grows his own lettuce right here and washes it with our water."
           Jimmy had met Hammon during some kind of a special military training that he‟d never fully explained. He did say Hammon took a liking to him, and would turn up from time to time on Jimmy‟s base. Hammon was a former SAS soldier who now worked as a private security guard in Afghanistan—a top one, Jimmy had said, the kind who destroys and replaces his cellphone every week, and knows the underground entrances to government offices, and takes on assignments too top secret to ever be mentioned. Jimmy had said hotels for internationals had become crime magnets, and staying at Hammon‟s guest house was the safest thing Mandy could
    do, if she insisted on going to Kabul.
           Hammon led her to the second floor of what seemed to be the main building. "Here you are," he said, pushing open the door to a small corner room. "Not gorgeous, but it‟s clean." The room held a built-in closet, a desk, and a bed next to the window. The paint on the walls was gently peeling, the ceiling stained. Mandy tugged open the heavy curtains and glanced out. The high security walls, topped with barbed wire, enclosed a courtyard dotted with rose plants struggling unsuccessfully to achieve a jaunty air. At least the dust combined with the day‟s light gave everything a burnt orange wash, which Mandy found mildly comforting.
           Hannon stepped to the desk and used his foot to tap a bottom board. It hinged open to reveal two hidden drawers. "This is a good place to leave your passport—just carry a photocopy. You can also stash any extra cash, jewelry, whatever," he said. "And over here—" He went to a landscape painting on the wall and pulled the frame away from the wall to reveal a small crawlspace, "this is where you hide if you ever need to. It closes from inside. It‟s dark but there‟s enough air for eight hours."
           Mandy smiled. "I‟ve entered another world," she said. "We don‟t have anything like this back home."
           Hammon smiled. "I doubt you‟ll need it. But it would be foolhardy not to show you." Then he turned suddenly serious. "You‟re pretty safe within these walls, but we‟re right in the center of things, and even just outside our gate—let alone in a hospital or refugee camp—you can become a target of opportunity. People here are poor. They spot a foreigner, make a phone call, and get a payoff. That‟s all it takes. So don‟t forget it." He paused. "Sorry. Don‟t mean to lecture."
           "It‟s okay. I‟ve already heard it all from Jimmy."
           Hammon shook his head. "Tough break, Jimmy. He‟s that unusual combination of a real gentleman with a strong street-sense, at least for Afghanistan. He‟s among the best I‟ve ever seen."
           Others, Mandy thought, saw things in Jimmy that she never had.
           "You know I‟ve offered him a job when he gets back on his feet," Hammon continued.
           No,