“I don’t know,” I reply. And I truly don’t. “I would come back if they discovered another grave, but I can’t really hold out hope for that. It’s too consuming . . . and disappointing.”

Clay takes a sip of his black tea, steeped to a deep mahogany color.

“Waleed just sent me a message. His sister wants to know if you’d come help train some of the surgeons here. They’re eager to learn, from what he tells me.”

I bring my cup of kahweh to my face and inhale the soft bouquet of scents. I detect minerals leached from the earth, cracked cardamom pods, a swirl of cinnamon, a hint of saffron dust, and a whisper of cloves. A single rose petal floats on the surface. My parents never served tea this way in our home.

“I’d like to. I just don’t know if I can say yes right now.”

Clay nods, understanding.

“You’ve got to do what’s right for you.”

“And what about you? What story will you be working on next?” I ask.

“I want to do a piece highlighting the impact of war on kids,” he explains. “I mean, the impact our strikes have had here. I haven’t gotten much interest in it, to be honest. People want to read about violent Afghan men. They don’t want to hear about a kid who lost his parents in friendly fire.”

“But you’re still going to write it,” I guess.

Clay looks down at the table.

“Have you heard of the napalm girl?” he asks. I’ve seen the picture but let Clay remind me of the backstory.

“This photographer snaps a shot of a nine-year-old Vietnamese girl running down the street without a stitch of clothes on her, not even socks. The skin on her arm is dripping off, and there are clouds high as mountains behind her, and it looks like she’s come running from some dark hell. There are guys in helmets walking on the road too. You can tell from the look on her face and the way her ribs are showing, like she’s using every bit of lung power she’s got.”

I set down my mug.

“It’s a horrific picture but an incredible piece of photojournalism. I mean, it’s the whole story in this black-and-white image. The truth it conveys is undeniable, but they still tried to come up with any excuse not to run it. Nixon thought it was ‘fixed.’ And then there was the issue of her nudity.”

“People have an easier time kissing their elbows than believing war touches kids,” I say, lifting the wilted rose petal from my cup, feeling its velvety skin between my fingers. When I look up, Clay is looking at me intently, as if I’m tea leaves at the bottom of the cup.