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he says is drowned out by all the honking. He points the Kalashnikov at the stopped cars sweeping left to right, and Aziz and I drop down in our seats."America! America!"I tell Aziz we should get out of the car and lie facedown on the road, but Aziz thinks the car offers more protection."On the ground we'd be low and mobile," I say."Too many stray bullets may hit us," he says."We could roll under cars for protection," I say.Aziz and I argue, sinking deeper in our seats, our eyes just level with the dashboard."America! America!"The policeman lowers his Kalashnikov, gives one long angry look, and storms off. The other policemen watch him go. After a moment, they start waving traffic through.That night, back in my room, I feed the cat and think about Aziz and how just hours before, he and I had a calm, rational disagreement about how best to avoid getting shot.Unable to sleep, I listen to BBC Radio. A new police recruit had shot and killed two Americans in western Afghanistan. He was still in training, had just been assigned a gun. Hours later in Kandahar, an Afghan Army soldier fired on international troops, wounding two. Another day in Afghanistan.The next morning, back in the paraplegic ward, Mohamad asks Aziz whether I fast."Yes," Aziz says. "As a Christian, he fasts 40 days every year in the spring.""Does he pray?""Yes.""How does he pray?""On his knees. And he prays only on Sunday.""Jesus Christ is his prophet?""Yes.""What does he call his God?""His God has no special name. Sometimes they call him Jesus Savior.""Jesus was sent by their God?""Yes.""And he believes this?""Yes.""At least he believes in God," Mohamad says.A physical therapist stops by Mohamad's bed to examine his legs. Aziz and I leave for the amputee ward, where we meet Afghan soldier Mansoor Kohistani. Mansoor stands next to his friend and fellow soldier Moor al Haq. An ambulance from Kabul Army Hospital brought Moor to the center. He lost both his legs in May when he stepped on a mine in Helmand province. He lies on a gurney, the lower half of his body covered with a sheet, still wearing the green tunic of his uniform. The Colonel raises the sheet to inspect Moor's stumps."How is it in Helmand?" the Colonel asks."Some places there's fighting, some places are quiet," Moor says. "There are mine explosions every two or three days. It is usually mules and civilians who are injured."Mansoor stands off to one side. He enlisted in 2011, after graduating high school. He trained for six months and was commissioned as a first lieutenant, after which he mostly fought in the mountains. In the eastern province of Nuristan, Mansoor saw two Afghan soldiers blown to pieces by an IED. Their families were given $1,000 each and enough food to last for three days of mourning."You have an infection," the Colonel tells Moor. "Most of your right buttock is gone and has not healed. There is nothing we can do until the infection clears.""Then I can stay here?""If we have room."The Colonel pushes Moor's gurney back to the ambulance. Mansoor follows, his face downcast. In his mind's eye he can still see the RPG that struck a Humvee and cut an Afghan driver in half. Then there was the Taliban boy who was maybe 14 years old. He was alone and shooting at them. Mansoor told him to surrender. He kept shooting, so Mansoor called up a sniper. Afterward, he gazed at the boy鈥攕o young and so dead鈥攕prawled on his back behind a rock, and Mansoor knew he would remember him, too.My last morning in Kabul, I pack my duffel bag and feed the cat one last time. It doesn't want to leave my room, and I have to nudge it outside with my foot. It sits by my door as I walk down the stairs. Aziz meets me outside. I tell him I feel a little guilty about leaving the cat. I probably should not have fed it and given it false expectations. Aziz waves a hand. He can't be bothered. He compares the cat to Afghanistan: It was surviving before I came; it will survive after I leave.On our way to the airport, we make our final visit to the Orthopedic Center. Inside, the Colonel speaks to a man on crutches. He says he's had a prosthetic leg since 1998, when he stepped on a mine near the Iranian border. But last night he was cold and had no fuel, so he burned his artificial limb to warm his room.In the paraplegic ward, Mohamad lies on his bed and tells Aziz that one of his uncles died and his cousin left him late last night to be with the family. Because there are not enough doctors and nurses to provide him with the help he needs, Mohamad is being discharged."What about my bedsores?" he asks."Clean them every day," Zabel tells him. "Don't sit on them. Use your walking frame.""On the road, if I have problems there will be no one to help me. The road is very long.""Take the number 303 bus. It goes straight to Helmand.""There'll be no one to feed me," Mohamad says."If you find someone to stay with you here, you can come back to the center."Mohamad sits up and reaches for his walking frame. I can't imagine how useful it will be to him on the pitted, uneven roads he is about to face."Will you visit me in Helmand as you hav
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