Free Shooting Kabul by N. H. Senzai Page A

was a warm September day, and it felt good to have the sun shining on his back as he walked along Paseo Padre Parkway, heading toward Lake Elizabeth park.
    Mother was right about one thing, he thought morosely. If only we had enough money to go back tolook for Mariam. I bet she’s gotten across the border. She’s looking for us, I just know it.
    But where would the money come from? It cost thousands of dollars, and his father barely made enough to pay for rent and food. Even with Noor’s help, there was no way they could collect that much. Maybe I can get a job. But where? You had to be fifteen to work. Maybe he could get a paper route like Zalmay’s friend. But that would take years to save up.
    He needed a younger brother like Claudia’s, who had a ton of money, or he needed to have a stroke of good luck. Claudia and her brother had hit the jackpot while hiding out at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Claudia, a stickler for cleanliness, had insisted that she and her brother take a bath in the museum’s fountain late at night. While wading through the water, they’d found heaps of coins lying on the tiled bottom. Over the years visitors to the museum had thrown money into the fountain for good luck. Claudia and her brother had ended up using the fountain as their own private piggy bank. But Fadi didn’t have a loaded sibling or access to such a bank. He kicked a pebble on the sidewalk in frustration and stubbed his toe.
    â€œOw!” he grumbled.
    Maybe I can borrow the money from someone. Butwho? Uncle Amin wasn’t a possibility. He didn’t make a lot of money, and he was supporting his brother, who was out of work. Then again, his father would have borrowed money from someone, if it had been a possibility, and returned to Pakistan to look for Mariam.
    Professor Sahib’s news, along with all this thinking, was giving Fadi a headache. He rubbed his forehead with his fingers and waited at the crosswalk. As the little man on the light changed to white, he followed a woman pushing a stroller to the other side of the street. The sound of music floated through the air as an ice cream truck came around the corner.
    It’s Mr. Singh, remembered Fadi, Uncle Amin’s neighbor across the street . When he’d first met Mr. Singh the week of his arrival, he’d been surprised to see that the jovial ice cream truck driver had a beard and turban, similar to many Afghans. But he wasn’t Afghan, or even Muslim. He was from India, and his beard and turban were signs of his Sikh religious beliefs.
    Mr. Singh always gave the kids a discount when Khala Nilufer got them Popsicles. Man, Popsicles … a genius American invention. That and Twinkies, peanut butter, lime Jell-O and Snickers bars. He looked with a frown at the group of kids gathering around the small white truck. Darn. I wish I had some money . But I don’t evenhave a dime to my name. He was about to trudge on when a familiar flash of red caught his eye. It was Ike and his buddy!
    Fadi dove behind a tree just as Felix ran over, carrying two large ice cream cones. Fadi stood watching them, hoping they weren’t hanging out in the park. The boys were standing on the corner, licking their cones, when a sleek gray Mercedes-Benz pulled up next to them. Even though it was a red zone, the car stopped, and a dark-haired woman in a tailored black suit popped out. Felix stiffened and threw his cone into the bushes. The woman waved her finger at Felix and pointed back to her watch. Her hair swung angrily as she gestured to the car and climbed back in. His jaw clenched, Felix nodded to Ike and got into the passenger seat. As the car took off in a squeal of tires, Ike headed toward the bus stop.
    Good, thought Fadi with relief. They’re gone.
    By the time Fadi made it over to the edge of the lake, the sun had begun to sink into the line of clouds on the horizon. Hints of pink, lavender, and gray appeared at the tops of the