Laila is struck again by how beautiful he is, the perfect curve of his forehead, the slender
muscles of his arms, his brooding, intelligent eyes. A year has passed, and still there are
times, at moments like this, when Laila cannot believe that they have found each other
again, that he is really here, with her, that he is her husband.
"Back? To Kabul?" he asks.
"Only if you want it too."
"Are you unhappy here? You seem happy. The children too."
Laila sits up. Tariq shifts on the bed, makes room for her.
"I am happy," Laila says. "Of course I am. But...where do we go from here, Tariq? How
long do we stay? This isn't home. Kabul is, and back there so much is happening, a lot of it
good. I want to be a part of it all. I want to do something. I want to contribute. Do you
understand?"
Tariq nods slowly. "This is what you want, then? You're sure?"
"I want it, yes, I'm sure. But it's more than that. I feel like I have to go back. Staying here,
it doesn't feel right anymore."
Tariq looks at his hands, then back up at her.
"But only only if you want to go too."
Tariq smiles. The furrows from his brow clear, and for a brief moment he is the old Tariq
again, the Tariq who did not get headaches, who had once said that in Siberia snot turned to
ice before it hit the ground. It may be her imagination, but Laila believes there are more
frequent sightings of this old Tariq these clays.
"Me?" he says. "I'll follow you to the end of the world, Laila."
She pulls him close and kisses his lips. She believes she has never loved him more than at
this moment. "Thank you," she says, her forehead resting against his.
"Let's go home."
"But first, I want to go to Herat," she says.
"Herat?"
Laila explains.
The children need reassuring, each in their own way. Laila has to sit down with an