The wind rustled the trees.
“Was it bad?”
“Not too bad. He was here, in Yazd. The prison was not good, but at least he was close.”
Sohrab’s jaw twitched.
I bumped his shoulder again, more to cheer him up than anything.
But then he said, “Four years ago they transferred him.”
“Oh?”
“To Evin prison. You know Evin?”
I shook my head.
“It is very bad. It’s in Tehran. And they put him...”
Sohrab stared up at the branches shading us.
“No one can see him. Not even the other prisoners.”
“Solitary confinement?”
“Yes.”
“Oh,” I said.
Sohrab sighed.
I wanted to make it better, but I didn’t know how.
Sohrab had Father Issues.
I suppose I had Father Issues too, though they paled in comparison.
Maybe all Persian boys have Father Issues.
Maybe that is what it means to be a Persian boy.
“I’m sorry, Sohrab.”
I rested my hand on his shoulder, and he let out a long, low breath.
“What if I never see him again?” he whispered.
I squeezed Sohrab’s shoulder and then stretched my arm all the way across it, so I was kind of holding him.
Sohrab bit his lip and blinked and squeezed out a few stress hormones of his own.
Just a few.
“You will,” I said.
Sohrab wiped his face with the back of his hand.
I felt so helpless.
