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Afghans, but centuries of war have left our country full of strife—one of the poorest in the world.”
    As the adults continued their gloomy conversation and Zalmay played with a handheld video game, Fadi shrank back into the fading brown leather seat. He gazed in trepidation at the white-crested churning water of the San Francisco Bay as they headed across the San Mateo bridge. Fascinated, Fadi pressed his nose against theglass, feeling as if he could reach out with his hand and touch the cool water. A seagull flew low over the waves seemingly motionless, buffeted by the wind. The water below undulated in shades of blue to green to purple in some spots. Fadi thought of a book he’d read last year that he’d found at the underground book shop. Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea . He wondered what kind of creatures lurked under the shifting water.
    For a moment Fadi felt queasy, a little seasick. They were traveling awfully close to the water. Afghanistan was landlocked, with the nearest coast lying along the Arabian Sea three hundred miles to the south. Even when he was young, in Wisconsin, Fadi had never seen the ocean. This was the first time he’d been this close to so much water. A gazillion gallons of shimmering water flowed beneath them. Mariam would have loved it .

W ITH A BURP OF SMOKE BILLOWING FROM its tailpipe, the Dodge exited the bridge and hopped onto Interstate 880. They headed south for another ten miles, as a comfortable silence descended over them. Fadi looked at the cars racing by and marveled at their speed. He’d rarely left their house on Shogund Street these past few years. Although the Taliban had brought some order to the city, it still hadn’t been safe to go outside. Zafoona had decided to homeschool Fadi, Noor, and Mariam, especially since all the girls’ schools had been closed by the Taliban.
    Fadi stared at the new white strands in his father’s hair and couldn’thelp but feel sorry for him. His father had wanted to go back to Afghanistan to help, but it just hadn’t turned out that way. Initially he’d hoped to teach at the agriculture department at Kabul University. Founded in 1931, the university had once been the finest in Asia, the intellectual heart of the country. But after years of war it was in shambles and had to be shut down.
    Habib had opened a small dry goods store in downtown Kabul to support the family after the opium crops had been destroyed. Every once in a while his father would take Fadi to work with him. Downtown Kabul’s maze of streets was usually jam-packed with cars, donkey carts, and people on foot.
    Fadi gazed out the window at the tall walls that lined either side of the freeway, sheltering buildings, shopping plazas, and parks on the other side. Everything looked so big and so new.
    Uncle Amin eased his way into the right lane and took the Thornton Avenue exit into Fremont. They passed an elementary school and drove along a street lined with shops, teahouses, restaurants, and a small theater. Fadi rolled down the window to let in fresh air, and he caught a whiff of freshly baked bread. He could see signs in familiar Persian script on many of the storefronts.
    â€œHere we are. Little Kabul—home away from the realthing,” joked Uncle Amin with a rumbling laugh.
    â€œReally?” asked Habib, looking out the side window. A group of women in long dresses and head scarves strolled by.
    â€œFremont has the largest population of Afghans in the United States,” said Uncle Amin. “There are dozens of Afghan restaurants, cafés, and shops. You can drop by, get a cup of tea, and hear the latest news.”
    â€œThat must be nice,” said Zafoona.
    â€œYes, it is. Nilufer can find all the ingredients she needs to make her famous kebobs and pulaos .”
    The mention of kebobs got Fadi’s stomach rumbling. He hadn’t eaten much on the plane and he was hungry.
    â€œAh, here we