WHAT PASSED FOR THE DIRECTOR’S OFFICE was four bare, cracked walls, a mat on the floor, a table, and two folding chairs. As Zaman and I sat down, I saw a gray rat poke its head from a burrow in the wall and flit across the room. I cringed when it sniffed at my shoes, then Zaman’s, and scurried through the open door.
“What did you mean it may be too late?” I said.
“Would you like some chai? I could make some.”
“Nay, thank you. I’d rather we talk.”Zaman tilted back in his chair and crossed his arms on his chest. “What I have to tell you is not pleasant. Not to mention that it may be very dangerous.”
“For whom?”
“You. Me. And, of course, for Sohrab, if it’s not too late already.”
“I need to know,” I said.

He nodded. “So you say. But first I want to ask you a question: How badly do you want to find your nephew?”

I thought of the street fights we’d get into when we were kids, all the times Hassan used to take them on for me, two against one, sometimes three against one. I’d wince and watch, tempted to step in, but always stopping short, always held back by something.
I looked at the hallway, saw a group of kids dancing in a circle. A little girl, her left leg amputated below the knee, sat on a ratty mattress and watched, smiling and clapping along with the other children. I saw Farid watching the children too, his own mangled hand hanging at his side. I remembered Wahid’s boys and... I realized something: I would not leave Afghanistan without finding Sohrab. “Tell me where he is,” I said.
Zaman’s gaze lingered on me. Then he nodded, picked up a pencil, and twirled it between his fingers. “Keep my name out of it.”
“I promise.”

负责人的办公室是这么一间房子：四面空荡荡的开裂墙壁，一张地毯，一张桌子，两张折叠椅。察曼和我坐下的时候，我看见一只灰色的老鼠从墙洞探出头来，窜过房间。它嗅嗅我的鞋子，我身体一缩，接着它去嗅察曼的鞋子，这才奔出洞开的门。
“你刚才说太迟了是什么意思？”我说。
“你们想喝茶吗？我可以去弄一些。”
“不了，谢谢。我们还是谈谈。”察曼身子倒在座椅上，双臂抱胸，“我要告诉你的是不愉快的事情，更别提可能还很危险。”
“谁危险？”
“你，我。当然还有索拉博，如果还不算太迟的话。”
“我需要知道。”他点点头：

“好的。但我首先想问你一个问题。你有多渴望想找到你的侄儿？”
我想起童年时代，我们在街头和人打架，每次都是哈桑为我挺身而出，一个打两个，有时是三个。我畏缩旁观，心里想帮忙，但总是望而却步，总是被不知道什么东西拉退。
我望着走廊，看见一群孩子，围成一圈跳舞。有个小女孩，左腿从膝盖以下不见了，她坐在破旧的垫子上观望，微笑着，和其他孩子一起拍着手。我看见法里德也在看着那些孩子，他残废的手就挂在身边。我想起瓦希德的儿子……我恍然省悟：如果没有找到索拉博，我绝不离开阿富汗。 “告诉我他在哪儿。”我说。
察曼凝望着我，然后他点点头，捡起一枝铅笔，在手指间转动。“别说是我告诉你的。”
“我答应你。”