As the bus rolled along the only paved road through the valley into the small town, a young man peeled away from the crowd of afternoon shoppers and shouted for Dan to stop. “Salaam aleikum. I am friend of Yusuf. He come and see me yesterday. You please stay at my house.”
Dan looked down at the young man, who stood in front of a butcher’s shop, his palms open, a friendly smile on a prematurely lined face.
“I am Harun Ali.”
The skin of whatever animal had been most recently slaughtered hung like a limp flag from a horizontal pole in front of the compact wooden shack, advertising its innards. A group of bearded men, wearing felt hats and shalwar kameez, the typical long shirt and baggy trousers worn by men and women all over Pakistan, were shouting at a young boy inside. Everyone seemed a
