A Cup of Friendship by Deborah Rodriguez

looked out over the sea of faces, and then at Wakil’s. How proud he was to offer these boys a home and a place to learn. How proud she was to be able to help—and to be so close to him.
    “But we need more books, we need more room. This school has grown in size in only these few months. And what you’ve just seen is only a part of it. The girls come in the afternoon.”
    “Girls live here, too?” How remarkable it was that he, an Afghan man, would want to educate girls, especially in a country where the girls were predominantly illiterate, raised to be subservient.
    “No, they’re not orphans. Just poor girls with no place to learn. Why should they grow up ignorant? How can our country prosper if its women know nothing of its history? Or if they cannot read the Koran? Here we are unafraid to teach them. Now, come, let’s see the clinic, and then we shall have a tour of the boys’ home.”
    As they turned to leave, the boys sat down and began their chanting again. Candace was overwhelmed by Wakil’s vision. Affection welled up in her like a wave and she so wanted to take Wakil’s hand but knew she couldn’t. So she followed him out, as was the rule. But once outside, she couldn’t contain herself. She whispered to him and he followed her behind the building, behind a tree, like two teenagers. And there she kissed him hard, felt his body against hers, his strong hand on her lower back. Stealing a kiss like this, during the day, outside, was dangerous. She felt Wakil pull away.
    “Careful, my love,” he whispered. “There will be much time for this later. For you”—he hesitated, breathed into her neck—“are almost impossible to resist. But now, I want you to see the clinic.”
    They walked around the next building to the front door. Inside was a line of boys, women in burqas, and old men, which snaked from the waiting room all the way down the hall to a closed door.
    “We do not have enough doctors, and these few must help people for miles around,” Wakil said, his eyes full of concern. “The people in this area have experienced such hardships, and suffer from many ailments and diseases. They try to be strong. But they only get sicker. We have already lost many.…” His voice drifted off.
    He walked over to one boy and stroked his hair. He spoke quietly to another, putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder. And to another, and another. Then he returned to Candace and said, “We need more doctors, equipment, medicines. Or our young will continue to die young.”
    She looked at the little boy and wished she could hold him, too. She fought her every impulse to pull him into her arms, stroke his head. If she could say what she really wanted, what she held deep in her heart, it would’ve been this: to have a child with this man standing next to her, to make a life, a family, together. Instead, she said to Wakil, “We will help them, my dear. We will get everything you want. I promise you that.”

W ith the recent violence in the city, Sunny was anxious about the café’s being open late. It wasn’t only the latest suicide bombing that concerned her, but there were gangs of young men terrorizing foreigners and holding them for ransom—an Italian aid worker was kidnapped recently on her way home from a yoga class. Ahmet would have to guard the door and hire a friend to guard the gate. At the same time, because of the dangers, these late nights were terribly slow. People weren’t going out as much. They’d lived with violence in the past, but they’d become accustomed to the peace, which made the recent occurrences particularly frightening.
    But Bashir Hadi was right. They needed to make money and the longer they stayed open, the more chance they had of doing that. So she had put up signs on the front door and walls, and smaller ones on each table for the past week, announcing the late hours and entertainment. She even emailed some of her regulars.
    “He gives you a gift, Bashir Hadi does,” said