Son of Afghanistan Digital Book Tasting

Chapter 1

Afsar Ramos had always stood out in a crowd, though he never intended to. At six-foot-one, he carried himself with a quiet, almost unassuming confidence. His dark Afghan complexion, a deep olive brown that spoke to his roots, contrasted sharply with the paler tones of the university campus around him. Thick black hair, usually combed neatly to the side, framed a face marked by high cheekbones, a strong jaw, and intelligent brown eyes that seemed to absorb everything around them.

He was fit — the kind of fit that came from discipline rather than vanity. His frame filled out his clothes naturally, a product of consistent early-morning runs, not endless hours spent posing in a gym mirror. Broad shoulders, a straight back, and quick, purposeful movements completed the picture of a man who took himself — and everything he did — seriously.

Afsar was a Senior at Middle Tennessee State University, majoring in International Relations. Where some students ambled through their education, switching majors like changing shirts, Afsar had known exactly what he wanted from the start. His professors described him as sharp, insightful, and relentless in debate — always respectful but never one to back down from a challenge. He approached academics the same way he approached the rest of his life: with a strict adherence to routine and structure.

Every morning began the same way: up at 5:30 a.m., a three-mile run before breakfast, a quick review of his daily planner over black coffee, and then off to his classes or the library. Even his weekends followed a schedule that most of his friends found exhausting just to hear about. But Afsar didn’t mind. Routine gave him stability, a sense of control in a world that often felt chaotic. It kept him grounded, focused, and ready for whatever came next.

Afsar tugged open the heavy glass doors of the Student Recreation Center, letting in a burst of spring air behind him. He adjusted the strap of his gym bag over his shoulder, his sneakers squeaking slightly on the polished floor. As he stepped inside, he immediately noticed the buzz of activity — louder, more chaotic than usual.

Rows of folding tables had been set up across the basketball courts, manned by student volunteers in matching t-shirts. Banners hung from the rafters, announcing something about a campus-wide job fair. Students clustered around the tables, their voices echoing off the lofty ceilings, brochures and flyers flapping in their hands.

Afsar barely spared it a glance.

Some kind of event, he thought, weaving his way through the crowd with the natural efficiency of someone used to tuning out distractions.

“Hey, man, you looking for a summer internship?” a kid in a blue shirt called out, waving a glossy pamphlet.

Afsar gave a polite shake of his head. “No thanks. Got it covered,” he said, his voice calm, measured.

He continued on toward the weight room at the back of the center, the sounds of the crowd fading into the background. He had a schedule to keep. Midday workouts weren’t optional — they were as much a part of his day as breathing. Besides, he found comfort in the rhythmic clank of weights and the controlled atmosphere of the gym, far from the noise and unpredictability of the main floor.

Afsar slid into the locker room, tossed his bag onto a bench, and began changing with the same focused routine he’d followed all year.

Afsar moved smoothly through his workout, headphones in, the music pounding a steady rhythm in his ears. Bench press, pull-ups, squats — everything on his program, no deviations. His muscles burned in a familiar, reassuring way, each rep clearing his mind of everything but focus.

Still, even as he worked through his routine, part of his mind kept drifting back to the career fair he’d walked past. It was unusual for him to break from his schedule, but something about it tugged at him. Maybe it was the timing. Senior year was slipping away faster than he liked to admit, and the future was no longer something abstract — it was waiting just around the corner.

He racked the weights after his last set, wiped down the bench, and grabbed his water bottle. As he toweled off, he caught sight of himself in the mirror — dark skin still flushed from exertion, black hair damp with sweat, his lean six-foot-one frame showing the definition he’d worked hard for but never obsessed over. Fit, but not the gym-rat type. Just strong enough.

Maybe it’s time to start thinking a step ahead, he thought, tossing his towel into the hamper.

He shrugged back into his jeans and a plain black t-shirt, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. On his way out of the locker room, he caught himself smirking — a rare break from routine. Professor Howard would probably have a heart attack if he heard.

As he stepped back into the bustling main hall, Afsar scanned the crowd. Sure enough, he spotted the familiar green and gold signage of the U.S. Army booth tucked along the far wall. Two recruiters in pressed dress uniforms stood behind the table, talking animatedly with a group of students.

Afsar took a deep breath, adjusted the strap of his backpack, and started weaving his way toward them.

Afsar moved steadily through the crowd; his gaze locked on the Army table. Students weaved past him, some clutching brochures, others animatedly talking to recruiters or friends. His plan was simple — stop by, grab some information, maybe set up a follow-up meeting. Quick and efficient, just the way he liked things.

But then he felt it — that almost physical sensation of being watched.

He glanced to his left and caught the eyes of a woman standing behind a booth draped in deep blue cloth, decorated with the sleek, unmistakable seal of the Central Intelligence Agency. Her stare was sharp, focused, almost clinical — but not unkind. Like she was sizing him up and already knew something about him he hadn’t said aloud.

Without thinking, Afsar slowed to a stop in front of her table.

“Good afternoon,” the woman said, her voice calm and measured, with just a hint of a friendly smile. She wore a dark blazer over a powder blue blouse, and her ID badge simply read Ambar Shoeston. “I’m Ambar Shoeston. I represent the Directorate of Operations at the CIA. Are you interested in hearing about some career opportunities?”

Afsar blinked, thrown off balance for a moment. This hadn’t been part of the plan.
Still, he found himself answering, “Uh, sure. Why not?”

Ambar’s smile widened slightly, and she gestured to a set of meticulously organized pamphlets on the table. “Most people think the CIA only hires analysts who sit behind desks,” she said. “But we have a wide range of career paths — operations officers, paramilitary specialists, cyber operatives, linguists, and more. Some positions are field-oriented, others are more strategic. We look for people who can think critically, adapt under pressure, and who thrive in environments where structure isn’t always guaranteed.”

She watched him carefully as she spoke, as if studying his reactions.

Afsar nodded slowly, feeling curiosity spark in his chest despite himself. “And, uh… you recruit straight out of college?”

“We do,” Ambar confirmed. “We have programs for seniors and graduate students. If you’re serious about serving your country but want a different kind of challenge…” She let the sentence hang, letting the weight of her words sink in.

Afsar glanced over his shoulder at the Army booth — still there, still an option. But something about Ambar’s calm intensity, about the air of mystery she carried, held him in place.

He turned back to her, raising an eyebrow. “Okay,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “You’ve got my attention.”

Ambar’s eyes gleamed slightly, almost imperceptibly, as she leaned a little closer across the table, maintaining her casual, approachable demeanor.

“So, Afsar,” she said, rolling his name naturally off her tongue, “where are you from?”

“Water Valley,” Afsar replied easily, shifting his backpack higher on his shoulder. “It’s a small town here in Tennessee. You probably haven’t heard of it.”

Ambar chuckled softly. “Try me. I’ve been to plenty of small towns most people can’t find on a map.”

Afsar smirked a little but shrugged. “Well, it’s pretty rural. Not much to it. I grew up there with my mom and dad. She passed away a few years back.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Ambar said, her tone softening just a fraction. “Was she from around there too?”

Afsar shook his head. “No, she was Afghan. Came to the U.S. before I was born. Met my dad while he was stationed overseas.” His voice dipped slightly with the memory, but he kept his expression steady.

Ambar nodded thoughtfully, her instincts sharpening. “Did she teach you any languages growing up?”

“Yeah,” Afsar said, a little surprised at the question. “She made sure I could speak Dari fluently. I’m conversational in Pashto too, and my Farsi is… almost native level. Mom was pretty insistent about it.”

For the first time, Ambar’s polished, recruiter mask cracked ever so slightly, revealing a flash of genuine intrigue. She tilted her head, studying him with renewed interest.

“That’s impressive,” she said, her voice low, almost conspiratorial. “Not many people can say that. Especially not at your age.”

Afsar chuckled modestly. “It’s just how I grew up. It didn’t seem like a big deal at the time.”

“Trust me,” Ambar said, her eyes locking onto his with new intensity, “it’s a very big deal.”

There was a brief pause between them, the sounds of the busy career fair fading into background noise for a moment. Afsar felt a strange electricity in the air — like the ground had shifted slightly under his feet, and he was standing at the edge of something he couldn’t quite see yet.

Ambar leaned casually against the table; her posture relaxed but purposeful. “Let me explain something real quick before you head over to the Army table,” she said, catching the faint glance Afsar had thrown in that direction.

Afsar gave a polite nod, folding his arms across his chest, prepared to listen but clearly signaling that his mind was still elsewhere.

“The Agency’s Afghanistan directorate operates a little differently than what most people think,” Ambar began, her voice low and deliberate. “We need people who can blend in—not just Americans who look the part, but people who are the part. People who understand the culture, the language, the instincts. People who can read a situation before it even happens.”

She paused, letting her words hang in the air for a second longer than necessary.

“You fit a profile that’s extremely rare, Afsar,” she continued, her tone almost persuasive now. “You were born here, you’re American, but you carry the understanding of another world. That’s the kind of asset that can make all the difference.”

Afsar listened respectfully, nodding slightly but keeping his expression guarded. He appreciated the attention, but he wasn’t looking for a new direction—not today, anyway. His plan was set. Finish school. Talk to the Army. Serve his country in a way he had envisioned for years.

“Thanks,” he said, his voice even. “I appreciate you taking the time to talk with me. But I really should check out the Army recruiters before they pack up.”

Ambar smiled, undeterred. She reached into a small stack of folders behind her and pulled out a simple, nondescript card.

“I understand,” she said smoothly, holding out the card between two fingers. “But if you don’t mind, I’d love to get your contact information. Just so we can stay in touch. You never know where life will take you.”

Afsar hesitated for a moment, then, figuring there was no harm, scribbled his email and phone number on the card she handed him.

“Thanks, Afsar,” Ambar said warmly, tucking the card away. “We’ll be in touch.”

Afsar nodded once, offering a polite smile, and turned, weaving his way through the crowd toward the Army table—unaware that a door had quietly opened behind him, one he hadn’t even intended to knock on.

***

2010

The tires hummed against the cracked pavement as the old Dodge truck rumbled down the narrow country road. Afsar sat in the passenger seat, his small legs dangling just above the floorboard, nervously kicking back and forth. He clutched his worn backpack tightly in his lap, glancing up at his father every few seconds.

Jack Ramos gripped the steering wheel harder than necessary, his knuckles pale against the dark leather. His jaw was set tight, and deep lines carved across his forehead beneath the shadow of his ballcap. He stared straight ahead, his lips pressed together in a thin, grim line. Even at eight years old, Afsar could tell something was very wrong.

“Dad?” Afsar piped up; his voice was tentative. “Is Mom gonna be okay?”

Jack blinked hard, as if snapping out of some deep, heavy thought. He glanced over at his son for just a second, forcing a small smile that didn’t reach his worried eyes.

“She’s tough, buddy,” Jack said, voice rough. “Your mom’s the toughest woman I ever met. She’s just… she’s just gotta rest a little, that’s all.”

Afsar nodded, trying to believe him, but the tightness in his father’s voice made his stomach twist into knots. He turned his gaze out the window, watching the fields blur past, the occasional farmhouse standing solemn against the grey afternoon sky.

“Can we bring her the drawing I made?” Afsar asked, pulling a folded piece of paper from his backpack.

Jack finally allowed himself a real smile, brief but genuine. He reached over and ruffled Afsar’s thick black hair.

“Yeah, bud. She’ll love that. Might even frame it and put it right next to her bed,” he said, clearing his throat afterward like he was trying to push down something heavier.

The hospital wasn’t far now. Afsar could see the dull brick building rising up at the edge of town, its windows dark and heavy-looking, like tired eyes.

Jack’s face tightened again as they pulled into the small parking lot, his hands momentarily frozen on the keys before he twisted them out of the ignition. He sat there for a second, staring at the dashboard, his breathing slow and heavy.

Afsar sat still, watching him. “Dad?”

Jack finally turned, putting a strong but trembling hand on Afsar’s shoulder.

“Listen, kiddo,” he said quietly. “When we go in there… you just talk to her like normal, okay? Tell her about your day, your schoolwork. Tell her about that big test you got an ‘A’ on. She’ll like that. Just… keep her smiling.”

Afsar nodded solemnly. “I can do that.”

Jack gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze, then opened his door with a grunt. “Alright then. Let’s go see your mama.”

Together, they stepped out of the truck, Afsar clutching his drawing tightly as they made their way toward the heavy glass doors of the hospital.

The automatic doors gave a low whoosh as Jack and Afsar stepped into the hospital’s sterile, cold-smelling lobby. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and a nurse behind the front desk offered them a polite, tired smile.

Jack gave a quick nod but didn’t stop. He knew the way by heart now.

Afsar trotted alongside him, the soles of his sneakers squeaking lightly against the polished tile. His small hand occasionally brushed against Jack’s calloused one, but he didn’t grab it — he was trying to be brave, like his dad.

They moved through long, pale-blue hallways lined with faded posters about handwashing and flu season. Jack kept his eyes forward, his boots echoing quietly in the nearly empty hall.

“Is she still in Room 112?” Afsar asked in a whisper, as if afraid speaking too loud might somehow make things worse.

“Yeah, buddy. Same room,” Jack replied without looking down.

When they reached Room 112, Jack paused for a second outside the door, his hand hovering just over the handle. He drew a slow breath in through his nose and out through his mouth. Then he pushed it open gently.

The room was dim, the only light coming from a small bedside lamp. Machines beeped softly in the background, and the air smelled faintly of antiseptic mixed with something sweeter — probably the flowers on the nightstand.

Afsoon lay in the bed, her skin pale against the white sheets. Her long black hair was braided over one shoulder, and her chest rose and fell in slow, shallow breaths. She looked so small compared to how Afsar always remembered her — strong, lively, smiling.

Jack motioned silently to the chairs by the window, and Afsar followed him over, sitting down carefully. He placed his drawing on his lap and stared at his mother, willing her to open her eyes.

Jack sat heavily beside him, elbows on his knees, his face cradled in his hands for a long moment before he looked up at Afsoon again. His fingers tapped nervously against his thigh, but he didn’t say a word.

Minutes ticked by.

Afsar swung his feet slowly under the chair, glancing between his dad and his sleeping mom, the weight of the room pressing down on him.

“She looks tired,” Afsar whispered, his voice barely audible.

“Yeah,” Jack murmured. “She’s fighting hard, though. Just like always.”

Afsar nodded, hugging the drawing to his chest. He decided right then he’d tell her about everything — the spelling test, the book report, even the frog he found by the creek yesterday. He wanted her to have reasons to smile when she woke up.

Jack reached over and gently tousled Afsar’s hair again, a silent thank you for just being there, for being strong.

And then — a soft sound, a faint sigh — and Afsoon’s eyelids fluttered open.

Jack immediately rose from his chair when he saw her stir, crossing the room in two quick strides. He crouched by the bed, his hand gently wrapping around hers.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Jack said softly, his voice catching a little. “It’s me. I’m here. Afsar’s here too.”

Afsoon’s eyes, still heavy with exhaustion, flickered to life at the mention of her son. Her lips parted in a faint, cracked whisper.

“Afsar… come here, jaanam,” she said, barely above a breath, but the love and warmth in her voice filled the room.

Afsar scrambled out of his chair, clutching his drawing tightly. He hesitated for only a second before carefully climbing up onto the bed, mindful of the tubes and wires. Jack helped guide him gently, making sure he didn’t tug anything accidentally.

Afsoon opened her arms weakly, and Afsar nestled against her side, resting his head carefully on her shoulder.

“I brought you something,” Afsar said, holding up the crumpled piece of paper.

Afsoon smiled — a soft, weary smile — and with Jack’s help, she unfolded it. It was a drawing of their family: Afsar, Jack, and Afsoon, all standing in front of a house, the sun beaming overhead.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, tracing her finger lightly over the stick figures. “Just like you.”

Afsar beamed, then quickly launched into all the things he had saved up to tell her: how he got a ninety-five on his spelling test, how he was reading a book about space, and how he found a frog by the creek yesterday that tried to jump into his shoe.

Afsoon laughed — a thin, almost soundless laugh — but the joy was still there, shining in her tired eyes.

“You are so smart,” she said, brushing a trembling hand through his hair. “So brave.”

Afsar leaned closer, his little hand resting over hers.

“Don’t be afraid, jaanam,” she whispered, her voice suddenly steady despite her frailness. “You are special, Afsar. You’re meant for something greater.”

Afsar blinked up at her, his young mind not fully understanding, but feeling the weight and importance of her words deep in his chest.

Jack stood quietly at the side of the bed, watching the two most important people in his world, his jaw tight with emotion.

Afsoon’s fingers gently squeezed Afsar’s hand, as if willing her strength into him.

“Promise me you’ll remember,” she said, her breath growing lighter. “Promise me.”

Afsar nodded solemnly, clutching her hand tighter. “I promise, Mama.”

After a few more minutes of quiet conversation, Jack gently urged Afsar to say goodbye, knowing that they needed to leave before the visiting hours ended. Afsar reluctantly leaned in and kissed his mother’s forehead, pressing his small hand to her cheek one last time.

“I’ll be back soon, Mama,” Afsar whispered.

Afsoon gave a weak smile, her hand lingering on his as he pulled away.

“Be good,” she whispered. “Take care of your papa.”

Jack nodded, wiping away a tear that had escaped down his cheek. He gave his wife one final lingering look before turning to Afsar.

“Come on, son. It’s time to go,” Jack said, his voice thick with emotion.

The two of them made their way out of the room, Jack’s arm around Afsar’s shoulder. As they exited the hospital, the fluorescent lights seemed almost too bright after the dim, sterile quiet of the room.

Outside, the cool evening air greeted them, a slight breeze carrying the scent of the city. Jack led Afsar to the truck, and they climbed in together. Afsar sat quietly, gazing out the window, the weight of the visit pressing on his young shoulders. Jack started the truck, and they began the drive back to Water Valley.

The drive was quiet, the rhythmic hum of the tires on the asphalt filling the silence. Afsar was lost in thought, thinking about his mother’s words. He didn’t fully understand them yet, but they lingered with him like an unspoken promise.

As they neared the outskirts of town, Jack’s phone buzzed on the dashboard. He glanced at it and picked it up, answering quickly.

“Jack,” the voice on the other end said. “We need you back at the hospital. There’s been an incident. It’s your wife… Afsoon’s… We lost her.”

The words hit Jack like a punch to the gut. He didn’t say anything at first, just stared ahead through the windshield, the road stretching out before him, blurring. His grip tightened on the wheel as he felt a sudden, sharp pain in his chest.

“Jack? Are you there?” the voice asked again, concerned.

Jack slowly pulled the truck over to the side of the road, his body frozen in place. He closed his eyes and bowed his head, the weight of the news crushing him. He took a shaky breath, trying to steady himself. The sound of his breathing seemed too loud in the truck as his heart hammered painfully against his ribcage.

Afsar, sitting quietly in the passenger seat, glanced over at his father. “Dad? What’s wrong?”

Jack didn’t respond at first. The weight of what he had just learned, the devastation that had just hit him, was too much to bear. After a long moment, he finally managed to speak.

“She’s gone, Afsar,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “Your mom… she’s gone.”

Afsar’s eyes widened as he turned to face his father, confusion and fear in his gaze. “But… but I just saw her. She… she can’t be gone.”

Jack didn’t have the words to explain. Instead, he simply sat there, his head bowed in sorrow, unable to speak as tears welled in his eyes.

The road ahead seemed endless now, and the future was suddenly uncertain.