Free Saving Kabul Corner by N. H. Senzai Page A

felt.
    â€œAnd you’re so confident and smart,” added Laila.
    Ariana reached out and took Laila’s hand. “No, please—you don’t understand. Please don’t feel bad. Actually, I was jealous of you, too.”
    â€œWhat?” said Laila, her head bobbing up.
    â€œYou’re the smart one,” said Ariana. “You fit into the family better than I ever have. You speak Pukhto and Farsi beautifully and are so helpful around the house and the store. Everyone loves you.”
    The two girls sat looking at each other with growing embarrassment.
    Mariam laughed with delight, giving them both a hug. “Look at you two buttheads! You’re both awesome in your own ways.”
    As Ariana looked at Laila and Mariam together, the long festering knot in her chest began to ease.
    â€œYou’ll make friends here,” said Mariam, turning to Laila. “When I came, I met Ariana, and we’ve been best friends ever since.”
    â€œUncle Hamza will be here at the end of December,” added Ariana. “You’ll be together again and find a place to call home.”
    Laila sat mute, looking unconvinced.
    â€œI loved our old house in Kabul too,” said Mariam. “My dad was a professor at the university, but the Taliban came into power, and it became too dangerous for us to stay. As we were leaving, when I was six, I got lost in the rush of people trying to climb onto the truck headed to the Pakistan border.”
    Laila gasped. “What?”
    â€œWell, it all turned out okay.” Mariam smiled. “I was found.”
    â€œBut how were you left?” pushed Laila, news about her father forgotten.
    â€œIt wasn’t anyone’s fault, really. My brother, Fadi, was holding my hand, and I let it go to pick up my Gulmina, my Barbie.”
    â€œSo it was his fault,” said Laila.
    â€œNo, it wasn’t his fault,” said Mariam. “He was just a kid like us, but he blamed himself for a long time—”
    Suddenly the front door burst open. It was Uncle Shams, and he was breathing heavily. “Jamil. Brother, come quick!” he shouted.
    The girls quieted as Jamil emerged from the garage. “What’s going on?”
    â€œIt’s a catastrophe, a true calamity, I tell you,” Shams said, and wept.
    â€œWhat happened? What is such a calamity?” asked Jamil, confronting his brother.
    â€œThat ungrateful wretch, that toad, I can’t believe what he did!”
    â€œShams, who are you talking about? What happened?”
    â€œHaroon, that piece of donkey dung!”
    â€œWhat about him?”
    â€œHe quit!”
    â€œWhat?” Jamil gasped. “What do you mean, he quit?”
    â€œAnd he wasn’t man enough to tell me himself. He sent me a text. Can you believe it? A text!”
    â€œBut what happened? Where did he go?”
    Uncle Shams pulled out his phone and scrolled through his messages. “The ornery fool said he was overworked, underpaid, and unappreciated. So he’s gone.”
    â€œHe’s quit before,” said Jamil, trying to calm his brother down. “Remember three years ago? He wanted new ovens and a raise. We gave it to him. So ask him what he wants, and he’ll be back.”
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢Â 
    Two hours later, as the girls sat in the dining room pretending to do their homework, the truth of what had happened to Haroon became apparent. Uncle Shams called around and figured out what had happened, sharing the news with Jamil, Nasreen, and his wife as they huddled together in the living room. Haroon, it turned out, had been lured away to bake his famous bread for someone else—and that someone was Pamir Market.

A T FIRST ARIANA DIDN ’ T notice the vivid fragments of sunburst yellow plastered throughout Wong Plaza. She had eyes only for the sign that had been hanging in Pamir Market’s front window: Bakery Now O PEN . S ERVING F RESH , D ELICIOUS