One Child by Jeff Buick

seventy Afghanis. Enough for some vegetables and pulao . Maybe some naan. Does a trip to the marketplace interest you?"
    She brightened. "More than fetching water."
    "Do you enjoy bartering with the merchants?"
    "I do. They're very nice and there is one man who always gives me the best tomatoes on his cart."
    Concern washed over his face. "Does this man ever touch you?" he asked. She looked puzzled by the question and he said, "Like to pat you on the head, or adjust your scarf so it covers your hair."
    Halima shook her head. "No. Why do you ask?"
    "No reason, Halima." He handed her the money.
    Kadir closed his eyes and imagined a world where there were no Taliban or foreign soldiers and young girls were safe. Where poppies grew for their natural beauty, not for opium. Where fathers didn't have to sell one of their children to feed the others. Where his wife was still by his side and their children had a mother. That world existed somewhere, but not in Afghanistan. Maybe that world would return to his country, but it had been so long since they had known peace that it was hard to imagine living without death and pain as neighbors. He opened his eyes as she slipped the money from his fingers.
    Seventy Afghanis. Enough to feed them for a couple of days. The last of his money. After this, there was no more. Nothing to sell. No way to feed the girls. He needed Ahmad to make the connection to the man in Peshawar who arranged to have girls work for rich families. Halima would have a better life, with a bed and a good diet. And school. He could not even fathom sending Halima to school to learn mathematics and reading. Books and paper and pens cost money, and he needed her to fetch water and watch Aaqila and Danah on the few days when he could find work.
    "I'll go now," Halima said, rising and stretching. "Before it gets too hot."
    "Yes. That is a good idea."
    She collected the canvas bags and tucked them under her arm. Chances were good that with seventy Afghanis to spend she would only need one bag, but she took both, just in case. Halima glanced back from the door and waved to her father, who gave her a tired smile. The strange look had returned to his face. She carefully navigated the stairs and made her way through the courtyard. Outside the wall, the street was empty. She headed toward the Old City, a spring in her step.
    Her father was giving her more responsibility now. She was tired of watching her sisters and the trips to the market were fun. It was a long walk, and the bags were heavy on the way home, but she was helping with her father's burden and that was important. She liked bartering with the merchants, especially with the man with thick eyebrows who wore the pale blue turban. He gave her more tomatoes than he should. Probably because she didn't have a mother. She saw the look in his eyes when she told him that her mother was dead. It was a look she had seen a hundred times. The brief moment when the mask that concealed hidden emotions was stripped from the person's eyes and the pain of loss escaped. Everyone in Afghanistan had lost someone close to them. It was the ugly product of three decades of war and unrest.
    Halima rounded a corner and walked into a group of girls playing a pickup game of soccer with a bright plastic ball. Three of them broke off and came running over to her. She knew two of them, sisters from the neighborhood and had talked a few times to the oldest one, who was about her age. She had even joined in on some of their games. But not today. She was entrusted with an important job and having a good time wasn't part of it.
    "Halima," Jahenn, the older girl, gasped. "We heard you and Safa exploded a landmine."
    Her sister, Ramin, and the other girl stared with wide eyes and Ramin asked, "Did Safa lose her leg?"
    Halima shook her head. "No, she still has her leg. A goat set it off. Safa and I were close enough to get hit, though."
    The third girl pointed at Halima's bandage. "Is that from the