We both looked.
“Please, no more.”
I remembered something the orphanage director had said when he’d opened the door to me and Farid. What had been his name? Zaman? He’s inseparable from that thing, he had said. He tucks it in the waist of his pants everywhere he goes.
“No more.”
Twin trails of black mascara, mixed with tears, had rolled down his cheeks, smeared the rouge. His lower lip trembled. Mucus seeped from his nose. “Bas,” he croaked.
His hand was cocked above his shoulder, holding the cup of the slingshot at the end of the elastic band which was pulled all the way back. There was something in the cup, something shiny and yellow. I blinked the blood from my eyes and saw it was one of the brass balls from the ring in the table base. Sohrab had the slingshot pointed to Assef’s face.
“No more, Agha. Please,” he said, his voice husky and trembling. “Stop hurting him.”Assef’s mouth moved wordlessly. He began to say something, stopped. “What do you think you’re you doing?” he finally said.
“Please stop,” Sohrab said, fresh tears pooling in his green eyes, mixing with mascara.
“Put it down, Hazara,” Assef hissed. “Put it down or what I’m doing to him will be a gentle ear twisting compared to what I’ll do to you.”
The tears broke free. Sohrab shook his head.

“Please, Agha,” he said. “Stop.”
“Put it down.”
“Don’t hurt him anymore.”
“Put it down.”
“Please.”