Page 38 of What Remains (John Worthy #3)

Now, Poya eased from the woolen cocoon he’d made of his blankets.

On the roof of the world, a person never stripped down to nothing at night or, really, any time.

For Poya, this turned out to be a blessing, although privacy was relative.

So, he dressed quickly, wrapping himself up with practiced ease before slipping into straight-legged pants, thick wool socks, a cloth shirt, and, finally, a deep blue wool sweater decorated with red borders and white lotus flowers.

Once done, he checked the phone’s charge.

Eighty-five percent. Not bad, given the subzero temperatures in these parts.

During the coldest months, there were virtually no days with enough sunlight to make solar panels practical, which tended to ice up anyway.

Everyone in the valley used car batteries to power DVD players, televisions, radios.

Electric razors. Like all the other men in his clan, Amu had a cellphone on which he stored music because there was no service way out here.

Every couple of nights, Poya would stay awake until Amu began to snore and then slip out to plug in his own cell.

He didn’t think that, if discovered, Amu would take the phone away, but why take the chance?

Dropping his mother’s phone into a pocket, Poya coiled the cord, slipped that into the wool-stuffed sack he used for a pillow before fishing out two more items: his mother’s small mirrored compact and the tiny case where he kept his eyes.

When Poya was seven, Baba had presented him with his first pair. Everything about you is a disguise, Poya , Baba said . That includes your eyes. That first day Poya cried them out because slipping them in was hard and a little scary, but Baba made him learn.

We will keep at this until you learn. Baba had handed him a kerchief. Now, blow your nose and we will do this again by feel and then you will do this in front of a mirror, which is trickier because everything is reversed. But you must learn. This is non-negotiable.

Baba had been right, too. The eyes made a big difference, but they were only the finishing touch. Once fully disguised, he had wandered, freely, through Kabul’s streets. No one then had suspected what he was.

His problem now was what he was becoming.