When I was finished, I stood up and shielded my eyes from the glare.

"You done?" called Jayne. Most of the men were huddled by the trucks, keeping out of the wind, but Jayne was with Nila off to the side, near the spectators, and one of the kite fighters was kneeling in front of them. Legg was there too; maybe he was supposed to be standing guard. But everybody including Legg seemed to be focused on what the kneeling kite fighter was doing.

"Yeah," I shouted, and Jayne motioned me over.

I walked around the well and made my way across the open field toward Jayne and the others, staying out of the way of a shouting Pashtun with a green kite who ran right in front of me. When I got close to them, I saw they were gathered around a kneeling kite fighter his name was Chari, according to Nila who looked to be about forty-five, which I guess is old for Afghanistan. Like most of the other men I'd seen that day, he wore a wool scarf wrapped tight around his head with one end falling loose at his neck and shoulders. On the ground in front of him were two large clay bowls. One was messy with a grey paste that had slopped over its edges, and the other was filled with sparkling grains of gla.s.s. He was working on the twine of his pale yellow kite, methodically dipping a length of it in the glue, cleaning off the excess, then burying the sticky string in the gla.s.s until it was covered with sharp fragments. Then he draped that length over the ground and worked on the next.

Legg reached over and hit me on the arm. "This is the guy! Look at his hand!" He leaned down and touched the old kite fighter on the shoulder. When he looked up, Legg stuck out his hand with his fingers splayed. "Show him!" he said, pointing to me. "Show him your hand!"

Chari seemed confused and he turned to Nila with a hard look. When she translated he smiled wide, with teeth that were tea-coloured from chewing tobacco, and wiped his right hand on his clothes. Then he turned up the palm for me to see.

His hand looked like it was made of wax, like somebody had spent hours pouring drips from a candle over his palm and fingers, until the hand was completely hidden by hard, crisscrossing ropes and ridges. Chari watched my reaction and he seemed happy, his lined face broke into a grin, and for added effect he leaned over and pressed the palm of his hand into the bowl of ground gla.s.s, then lifted it out and showed it around, as if his hand was now made of diamonds.

Shouts were coming from the spectators around us and arms went up, pointing, and I tried to follow and see what they were seeing. There were two fighters on the field, one pulling a red kite and the other an orange, and seconds after I looked up their strings came together and the string of the red kite snapped. Everyone started laughing and spitting tobacco juice into the dirt as the wind carried the kite across the field. Some of the older children raced off to chase it, and some of the younger ones were lifted up onto their fathers' shoulders for a better view. And as I watched, the winning fighter, a younger man whose beard was darker than the others', and who wore the flat, felt pakul pakul cap of the mujahideen, approached us with his kite in tow like a flying orange pet, his gloved hand wrapped tight around the string. He didn't appear to be smiling. cap of the mujahideen, approached us with his kite in tow like a flying orange pet, his gloved hand wrapped tight around the string. He didn't appear to be smiling.

Legg nodded toward him. "What's this f.u.c.ker want?"

"We're done," said Jayne. "We should get going."

But no one moved and as the fighter came close it became clear that he wanted to offer one of the people in our group a chance to hold the string of a conquering gudiparan gudiparan. And as he got very close I realized he was handing it to me.

"No, thanks," I said, shaking my head. "It's okay." But inside my blood was racing because I realized that this was the reason I'd brought us here. I turned and squinted against the sun and the wind, and I pointed at Legg. "I think he wants to try."

Legg's eyes went wide and he looked immediately at Jayne. "Sir? That okay?"

I could see a knot rolling at the turn of the lieutenant's jaw but finally he gave a sharp nod. "For a minute," he said, and held his hand out for Legg's rifle.

Legg pa.s.sed it over and began to reach out for the string. Before he could touch it the man yanked it back and said some words that sounded like a warning.

"He says the string is sharp," said Nila.

The man shook the leather glove off his right hand, held it out for Legg, and Legg took it. Then he looked down at Chari, still at work on his twine, and he glanced over at me, and he winked. He pa.s.sed the glove back to the Afghan and grabbed hold of the string with his bare hands.

"Corporal," said Jayne, "you rip your hands up and you're on gate duty until we ship out."

"Yes, sir," said Legg, beaming. He had the string in both hands and he wrapped it carefully around his right. "This part's not too bad," he said. A hundred feet up, the orange kite dove and curled in the wind and Legg had to work hard to keep it under control. He walked with it some ways out, away from our group, but stayed clear of the four fighters on the field.

As he eased out, the wind swirled suddenly and the kite dove as if it might crash. Legg reached up with his left hand to steady it but immediately whipped it away "f.u.c.k!" and shook it as if he'd been stung.

"I'm serious," shouted Jayne.

For a second, after he got control again, I dropped my eyes to look at the men in the crowd. They were all lined and worn, like they'd personally been through a century of being f.u.c.ked around, and they were watching this spectacle a foreign soldier handling a gudiparan gudiparan almost greedily, like they were hungry for some kind of comedy relief. So there was a lot of pointing and laughing when Legg showed off the bright stripe of red on his left hand, running from the base of the fingers to the heel. almost greedily, like they were hungry for some kind of comedy relief. So there was a lot of pointing and laughing when Legg showed off the bright stripe of red on his left hand, running from the base of the fingers to the heel.

"That's enough, corporal."

It was getting dark, and part of me started to worry. Even though the look on Legg's face said he'd happily trade a month of gate duty for what was happening, I had this feeling that if things went on too long, what had been good might turn sour. I waved my arm to get his attention.

"Hey, Legg?"

He heaved on the string and made the kite swoop. "Whoa! I'm getting the hang of this f.u.c.ker. Who wants to bet on me?"

"Legg!"

He turned and looked at me. "What, you wanna try now?"

"No, but " I didn't bother to finish because Legg wasn't listening. He was leaning back, into the wind, holding the kite steady. Then he started motioning with his thumb, trying to tell the Afghan something. Once it seemed like he'd made the man understand, he slowly walked the kite in.

When he got close, he held his hand out for me to see. "Looka that!" he said, elated. "That mother's gonna scar up!"

"Gate duty," said Jayne. "Count on it."

Legg didn't hear him, or didn't care. He held the string out for me with stiff, struggling arms. "Take it here," he said. "It gets bad higher up." Behind and high above him the gusting wind was making the orange kite spiral like a fish around a lure and I could see what Legg couldn't that the kite fighter was getting anxious.

I reached out tentatively. I didn't want to take the string, not just because I was worried about getting cut, but because I wanted it all to end right there, with Legg getting what he'd wanted, thanks to me.

But Legg was waiting, insisting, and I didn't want him to think badly about me. So it didn't end when it should have. And I reached out for the glittering string.

I can't describe everything that happened after that. What I mean is, I can't describe everything at once. Maybe that's what happens when you try so hard to fence out stuff that means to get in; it still finds a way, but it comes in pieces, different parts at different times.

So as I sit at my computer and watch the cat, in our house on Breere Crescent, what I remember of what happened is the sound.

I hear the moan of the wind to start with, like a groaning over the field and through the remnants of buildings. And then other sounds, one at a time, join in.

I hear Legg trying to egg me on, to get me to grab hold. "Come on, a.s.shole, don't be a p.u.s.s.y! Put your hands on the f.u.c.kin' thing."

I hear my own sharp breath, and then shouts, and Legg "Aww, f.u.c.k! What didja s.h.i.t!"

I hear a roll of laughter and cheers from the crowd, that in my memory sound mocking, even angry.

I hear Lieutenant Jayne shouting. "Corporal, get back here!"

I hear the wind and cheers and laughter swirling up together, then rising and fading as another sound enters a steady wail, painful, coming from a different direction.

I hear my breathing stop, and the laughter disappear, so that only the wail and the wind are left. And over these sounds I hear the boots on my feet, pounding, pounding across the dirt and sand.

And then that sound stops too; there's only the wail, and the wind, and the hush of blood in my ears.

4.

Gerald drove home that night, after his meeting with Sandy, cataloguing for easier reference the various ways he had failed.

He had failed Bishop, by not staying alert to the slippage in market share percentages. It had been there for him to see, like a gargantuan sinkhole opening up in the highway ahead, a great harrowing blackness, and all he'd needed to do was keep his eyes open and not drive the company straight off the crumbling asphalt edge of it. But that was beyond him, apparently.

He had failed his wife, by a.s.suming she was capable of withstanding the lead-weighted, gilt-edged pressures of her world, whatever they were. All an attentive person needed to do was look at her, at the cloud of her face, to know that pressures were on her, nameless and unknowable, and that something should be done to help. But such responsiveness was suddenly a feature of his past, not his present. Now he just went merrily along, attending to trivia, while the woman he'd loved and wedded lay right there in bed beside him being crushed.

And he had failed Kyle most of all. Gerald drove through the tunnelling dusk, watching the street lamps overhead flickering to a kind of greenish half-life, not fully lit, not dead, and he thought of Kyle's eyes. Since he'd arrived home, his son had looked at him with eyes like these street lamps, and whatever had happened in that distant desert place, whatever "off-camp event" had taken his fully lit son and replaced him with a dimmed one, Gerald knew with the faith of the religious that it was no one's fault but his own.

No amount of calling and hectoring could cajole the facts of what Kyle had undergone out of the military or its pillowy layers of bureaucracy. They shrouded the information as if it were poison, or gold. He had found names of some of the highups, people in Ottawa, and when they'd resisted him, he had gone higher still. An a.s.sistant deputy minister of defence, he was told, was the only person who could help him. An a.s.sistant deputy minister of defence became, for Gerald, the peak of the mountain he sought to climb. And when he had finally reached one of these rarefied beings, a woman named Neula Van Wick, she told him he had gone too high, and his call should not have been put through.

VAN WICK : It may be little consolation to you, Mr. Woodlore, but the fact that your call has reached me is going to trigger a serious procedural review. : It may be little consolation to you, Mr. Woodlore, but the fact that your call has reached me is going to trigger a serious procedural review.

Gerald had employed language he rarely used to make clear to Ms. Van Wick what little consolation it was. And without insight into the cause of his son's troubles what was left to him was the bare effect, and that alone had taken him far too long to figure out.

The night before, he had come home from work, knocked on Kyle's door, and called to him against the hollow, polished wood as he had every night for a week: "How are you doing in there, son?"

And from behind the door, Kyle had said, "I'm up." And Gerald had been relieved. Because many times over the previous nights, when he'd knocked on Kyle's door and called into his room the same way, his son had replied, "I'm down."

The first few times, Gerald hadn't been overly worried. After enduring a trauma while in the military's faulty care, after coming home with his wrists bound like a felon, of course his son was down. Oberly had also said something about "grieving," and though the man had been mistaken, laughably so, in describing his son's behaviour as "erratic," Gerald was willing to give "grieving" the benefit of the doubt. And so it had made sense, the first night, when Kyle had said he was down. And the second night too. Three nights of being down were not implausible. Four nights, however, were a concern. The fifth and sixth nights, Gerald had begun to wonder what sort of professional he should call. He'd gone to Vicki and asked her opinion but, of course, Vicki had only said, "I'm not sure."

And then, last night, came: "I'm up." And Gerald had nearly punched the door in joy.

"That's good, son," he'd called with his palms pressed against the wood. "That's great!" He'd been so encouraged, he'd done what Kyle had told him never to do: he opened the door without asking. He'd meant only to give his son a hug, a kind of welcome back squeeze. But when he cracked open the door, he saw instantly what Kyle had meant when he'd talked of being "down" and being "up."

He was gambling.

It was there, on his computer screen: StarfishCasino.com. His son was gripping his mouse and clicking...clicking...clicking the gold "BET MAX" "BET MAX" b.u.t.ton beneath a virtual slot machine of a suburban luau theme with spinning hams and pineapples and cherry colas. b.u.t.ton beneath a virtual slot machine of a suburban luau theme with spinning hams and pineapples and cherry colas.

Gerald had inched farther into the room. "What are you doing there, Kyle?" And his son had simply looked around at him with those half-bright eyes until an electronic bell on his computer went ding ding, and then he turned back to the screen.

Gerald had let that ding ding and that look in his son's eyes roll around in his brain while he scanned the room for other insidious elements. Drugs were on his mind; was Afghanistan not the opium capital of the world? "Now, Kyle," he'd said, keeping his voice low and approaching his own son the way he'd once seen a television trapper come up on a wounded elephant seal. "I notice you're clicking on the Bet Max b.u.t.ton there. And I was just wondering how much money is it real money you're betting, son?" and that look in his son's eyes roll around in his brain while he scanned the room for other insidious elements. Drugs were on his mind; was Afghanistan not the opium capital of the world? "Now, Kyle," he'd said, keeping his voice low and approaching his own son the way he'd once seen a television trapper come up on a wounded elephant seal. "I notice you're clicking on the Bet Max b.u.t.ton there. And I was just wondering how much money is it real money you're betting, son?"

And his sweet, logical, chemistry-studying son had turned to look at him once more, and this time he spoke.

KYLE: Of course it's real f.u.c.kin' money, Dad. Whaddaya think I am, a Of course it's real f.u.c.kin' money, Dad. Whaddaya think I am, a p.u.s.s.y? p.u.s.s.y?

And it was after that, when he'd been staring at the back of his son's almond sh.e.l.l hair, trying and rather pathetically failing to make sense of what he'd just heard, that the cat, from somewhere high above, had leapt onto his neck.

Which reminded him, that was another thing he had failed at.

And all of his failures, Gerald told himself as he sped home, were the product of inattention and inaction. He hadn't lost the ability to prevent these disasters from occurring, he'd lost the impetus and the will. Somehow he had become still, as if anxiety alone were initiative, and by becoming so he had opened his house to blights that had no business coming inside. So tonight he was resolved he was taking back control, and all the avenues for ills would start being closed.

Gerald saw the highway-side doughnut shop that he pa.s.sed every night approaching on his right, and as if to make concrete the notion of a material change in his character, he decided to not merely watch the doughnut shop go by and wish wish he had stopped for a Honey Glazed or a Cinnamon Strizzle, but to turn onto the exit ramp and go in. The decision came upon him with such force that he began to twist the wheel and change lanes without signalling, which he realized only when the silver minivan lodged in his blind spot blared a protest that went far beyond what was warranted, in Gerald's view. he had stopped for a Honey Glazed or a Cinnamon Strizzle, but to turn onto the exit ramp and go in. The decision came upon him with such force that he began to twist the wheel and change lanes without signalling, which he realized only when the silver minivan lodged in his blind spot blared a protest that went far beyond what was warranted, in Gerald's view.

"Don't sit in someone's blind spot!" he shouted at the minivan as it pa.s.sed. It was never satisfying for Gerald to yell at a driver who'd done something stupid; it was a demonstration of impotence, nothing more. But he yelled it out all the same as he squeezed the wheel and made it across two lanes just in time to catch the ramp.

In the doughnut shop, still bristling, he stood third in line behind a stooped grandmother holding the hand of a small pig-tailed girl about four, her hair sown with plastic daisies, and a man Gerald a.s.sumed to be a truck driver by his unshaven face, dark-blue work clothes and astonishing obesity. Unlike the grandmother and child, who seemed to be pointing at and discussing the merits of each variety of doughnut displayed on the pull-out shelves behind the counter, the truck driver seemed to know exactly what he wanted, because he spent his time staring out the window and rummaging in his pants.

Gerald had in mind something with icing. He'd always been an icing-doughnut man, much to the chagrin of Vicki, who for as long as he'd known her had considered doughnuts of any kind, and icing-doughnuts in particular, to be gauche. Anything gauche was, to Vicki, a great malevolence. It was why he'd never stopped at the doughnut shop on his way home from work, because he couldn't bear the arm's-length shame, and the thought that he had allowed Vicki's snooty sensibilities to interfere with his enjoyment of icing-doughnuts all this time made Gerald even more infuriated than before.

With no thought for Vicki's apparently fragile state or his contrition over the carriage clock skirmish, he pulled out his cell phone and dialled her number. "Vicki," he said into her voice mail, "I just wanted to let you know that I've stopped at the doughnut shop on the way home from work, and I'm having an icing-doughnut." He made eye contact with one of the women behind the counter and nodded, just to let them know he was coming and looking forward to it. "Probably a chocolate icing one, if they have them, I can't see at the moment. But that's what I'm doing. Really going to enjoy it." He was about to hang up, but added, "If you'd like me to bring one or two home for you, just give me a call on the cell. It's" he checked his watch "just after eight."

He folded up the phone and let it slide into the silk sheath of his pants pocket.

The huge truck driver turned and gave Gerald a sheepish look. "My wife and kid are expecting two dozen Boston creams and I can't find my G.o.dd.a.m.n sticker card."

Gerald smiled.

"You collect the stickers?" said the truck driver.

"No," said Gerald. "But maybe I should."

"It's a good deal. After a dozen dozen you get a dozen free." He was checking his shirt pockets now, rooting around the b.u.t.tons with parsnip fingers. "G.o.dd.a.m.n thing, probably left it on the seat."

"Going a long way, are you?"

The truck driver, reaching for the wallet in his back pocket, frowned up at him, apparently confused.

"I mean" Gerald motioned out toward the truck parking area "are you in the middle of a long run?"

The man sniffed, rifling through his bills and receipts. "I look like I run much to you?"

"No," said Gerald. "I mean sorry. I was just thinking of your truck."

The truck driver knotted his brow. "What truck?"

I am killing myself with a.s.sumptions, thought Gerald.

"Hey listen," said the large man, "would you mind saving my place in line? I just gotta go back to the car and see if I left that sticker card on the seat."

"Not at all," said Gerald, happy to help someone he had mentally d.a.m.ned to a life of trucking. "I'll wait here."

The man winked and gave him the thumbs-up. "Be right back."

Gerald watched the man hurry out the door and across the parking lot as fast as his enormity would allow and toyed with the idea of getting a sticker card for his own family. Kyle wouldn't object; he ate just about anything. And the horror on Vicki's face would be priceless.

"Sir?"

Gerald turned to see that the grandmother and child had finally gone, and the counter girl was waiting for him.

"I'm not next," said Gerald. "There's someone in front of me."

A shimmer of bewilderment glided across the girl's face. "But there's no one here," she said.

"He's just gone to his car; he'll be right back."

The girl cast a searching gaze out the window and back at Gerald. "He's gone to his car?"

"He's gone for his sticker card. I'm saving his place in line."

Someone behind Gerald coughed.

"There's people waiting," said the girl, whose orange-and-white paper cap sat square on her head, suggestive of someone who took pride in her work, which Gerald would normally have applauded. She smiled insistently at him and Gerald smiled back.