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turned from me and walked into the night, leaving his pallet on the landing zone.
    A heavy felt blanket was tacked over a HESCO doorway. It blew in the breeze. The light behind it escaped, in and out, in and out. Mud androck swelled the steel frames of the HESCOs, buckling them slowly. Inside, a stove full of embers held out against the cold. A thin dusty carpet struggled to cover the dirt floor. Under short wool blankets eight lumps slept with their knees huddled to their chests. I lay in the corner and crawled into myself for warmth. I had no blanket and was the ninth.
    –
    I woke an hour before sunrise, worrying about my brother and if Taqbir had kept his promise to me. As long as I worried, my sleep had no depth, so I left the barracks and looked for a warm place until dawn. Somewhere outside a generator hummed. I walked quickly through the firebase, toward the sound and the hope of warmth. I found the generator next to a trailer full of latrines. I stepped inside. It was clean and simple. A large mirror, two sinks, and two rows of toilets—not your Western kind, but stalls built around holes in the ground. I squatted down to use one and, still worrying about my brother, I dozed.
    Suddenly I heard the noise of a truck outside and then footsteps as someone entered. Water ran from one of the faucets. I strained to see between the stall’s cracks, and noticed the very blond beard from the hospital. The man pulled clothes from a bag—a few T-shirts and some underwear and blue jeans. No uniforms, just regular clothes. He washed them in the sink with a bar of hand soap. As he did, he whistled to himself some happy tune. He didn’t catch my feet under the stall. I dared not move.
    The door slammed again. There was another set of steps. I angled my head and caught the first glimpse of a man I would come to know well, Issaq. He had a dwarfish look common to those for whom starvation was a childhood companion. His strange appearance made me question whether I was in fact awake, or he real. He stood at the sink next to the blond man and ran a rag under the water. He took off his shirt andscrubbed with the rag under his arms and against his shoulders. I only caught glimpses, but what I saw frightened me. Scars crossed his body in every direction. The skin around each was cracked and dry. Issaq itched at the tangle of scars with his wet rag. Soon they became red and looked evil, like sleeping snakes beneath his skin.
    The blond man stood next to Issaq, wringing water from his shirts and underpants. For a time neither spoke, but in that quiet lay a familiarity. Item by item, the blond man hung his clothes on the edge of an empty sink. Stenciled on a waistband or shirt collar, I saw his name—JACK.
    Finally, Mr. Jack broke the silence. How are the recruits? he asked. His Pashto was like a child’s. He invented unusual pronunciations for common words.
    They are fine, said Issaq, but I wonder how long they will stay.
    Are they scared to fight? asked Mr. Jack.
    Issaq turned toward him, displaying his body’s many scars. That has never been a problem for us, he said. He stood there for a moment longer, forcing Mr. Jack to look at him. Satisfied, Issaq faced back to the mirror. He spoke into his reflection: It has been two months since we’ve been paid.
    I’ve seen Sabir tonight, said Mr. Jack. He has plenty for everyone now.
    Issaq was quiet for a moment. Would you like to come to training tomorrow, to see the recruits? he asked.
    Mr. Jack answered: I would, but my trip was only for tonight, to see Sabir.
    When you’re next here, they will be ready, said Issaq, proudly.
    Train them hard, Mr. Jack said. The spring will be busy.
    We are always busy, Issaq grumbled.
    I don’t think Mr. Jack understood him, though. He’d spoken quickly and, as I’ve said, Mr. Jack’s Pashto was not so good. I leaned back andstopped looking at the two of them. I heard the faucet turn off. There were more steps. Outside a truck door slammed shut.