“At this point, I’d even go for one of the dog biscuits.”

Ghost shot me a “don’t even think about it” look and moved to stand between me and his food.

“My team is coming for me,” I said. “Can I stay here for a few hours and wait?”

“Of course, of course, as long as you need.” He didn’t ask for details, and I had no idea what information Church told him. Jamsheed seemed to be taking all of this in stride. He took me by the arm and led me through a small door into his apartment. It was cramped, but very clean and decorated with gorgeous framed photographs of children, animals, landscapes, and buildings.

“Your work?” I asked.

He nodded. “A hobby. I hope to retire from this work and concentrate on photography.” He leaned on the word “work.”

“You have an incredible eye,” I said, and I wasn’t joking. Each of the pictures was a small masterpiece of composition. Not just a flower, but an angle that showed light caressing the striations on a delicate petal in a way that cast it as an alien landscape. Not merely a photo of a child with a kitten, but a glimpse into the wonder in that child’s eyes and the trust in the body language of the kitten. Each piece was a statement filled with visual poetry that betrayed a deep understanding of the connection between the physical world and the spiritual. “These are really quite beautiful.”

He made a modest sound of dismissal.

“No,” I said, crossing to stand in front of one picture in particular, “you have the gift.”

Jamsheed came and stood next to me, trying to see the picture through my eyes—a foreigner, a soldier, a non-Muslim, a stranger. The image that caught me, that riveted me, was of a chain-link fence beyond which a group of kids played soccer in a deserted parking lot. Beyond the skill of the composition, the story it told struck me to the heart. A bunch of kids totally absorbed in their game. At that distance and with a gentle softening of the focus, he made the children nonspecific. It no longer mattered if they were preteens or teens, if they were boys or girls, or if they were Muslim or Christian. What mattered, what shone through, was that they were innocent and at peace with the fun they were having. That picture might have been taken anywhere. England or Uruguay, Alabama or here in Iran. There were so many lessons implied in the simple grace of those children, and it had been perfectly captured by this man’s camera.

He waited out my long silence, then asked, “What does it say to you?”

“Lots,” I said. “But I guess … two things most of all.”

“Oh?”

“Everybody has kids,” I said, “and everybody loves their kids.”