Agonizing pain in his ankle brought MacGyver out of a deep sleep and made him sit up to grab his ankle. The boy holding his ankle sprang from a crouch to a stand and shoved the end of his rifle in MacGyver's face. The two stared at each other for a few minutes of silence. MacGyver looked away, looking around the room. The little girl was not there. The fire was low. They were the only two in the room.

"Running would be a bad idea," the boy told him. "With your ankle, I'd kill you before you reached the door. No. That's not true. I'd let you run for a while, then chase you, and when I killed you, you'd be looking right at me. I like to see the look in their eyes when I kill them."

MacGyver looked up the barrel of the rifle at the boy. He guessed the boy was sixteen or seventeen. He wasn't filthy, but he was wearing a military uniform. And he had clearly seen far too much death in his young life if he was making threats like that.

"Who are you?" MacGyver asked.

He didn't answer right away. "Milad."

MacGyver slowly nodded.

"We have a lot to talk about, Angus MacGyver. Sit back." He motioned back with the rifle.

MacGyver noticed that he was in an alcove. He hadn't noticed that the first time he woke up, but he had also been in a lot of pain then. His body didn't ache as much, but his ankle throbbed from whatever the boy had done to it. MacGyver slowly moved back so he could lean on the wall behind him. The boy moved the rifle, holding it in front of him.

"You are from America. Why are you in Iran?"

MacGyver didn't answer.

"Answer the question."

MacGyver didn't.

"You will answer the question, or I will shoot you."

MacGyver didn't answer. The boy moved the end of his rifle to MacGyver's other ankle. "Then you'll have one sprang ankle and a missing one." He cocked the gun.

"Aid. I'm… Giving aid."

In the closed space, the gun going off was deafening. One second, MacGyver heard the whizz of a bullet past his head, and in the next second, pieces of rock flecks flew. MacGyver had just enough time to cover his eyes. When the brick shrapnel stopped flying, his ear rang from the explosion of the gun next to it.

MacGyver looked up when hot metal was shoved against his throat. The boy glared at him. He looked ready to kill MacGyver.

"I changed my mind. I'd rather see your head explode." He cocked the gun again.

"I'm not telling you why."

The boy smiled. MacGyver hadn't seen such a sadistic smile in a while, and it was more chilling to see on a child's face. "Okay." The boy lifted the rifle, aiming between MacGyver's eyes. "I was wrong about you, then."

That caught MacGyver's attention.

"Wrong about me?"

"Yes. The information we got said you like to save people. You don't. That's good for me."

"Hold on. Just… Hold on."

The boy lowered the rifle, now aimed at MacGyver's chest. Milad wasn't relaxing, despite having an answer that satisfied him.

"What do you mean being wrong about me is good for you?"

"I get to kill you. My sister won't be hungry for a few days. She'll think it's boar like I always tell her." The boy raised the rifle again.

"WAIT!"

Again, he lowered the rifle to aim at MacGyver's chest.

"What do you mean you thought I liked to save people. Explain that."

"No. You must answer my question first. Then I'll answer yours – if you tell me something useful."

He stared at the boy. Something was happening here that seemed both surreal and desperate. This boy was psychotic; that was clear to MacGyver. If he was to believe what the boy said, he'd even resort to cannibalism. He was a survivor, but everything he did was for his sister, that innocent little girl MacGyver had met two days ago. The one who wrapped his ankle brought, who had brought him the only food she had and water, and who had learned quickly how to play checkers with him.

"Answer one of my questions first. Just one more. If I believe you, I'll give you something useful," MacGyver told the boy.

The boy stared at him. His deadpan face didn't tell MacGyver what he was thinking.

"One question," he agreed.

"Who is it you want me to save?"

"My sister."

That's what MacGyver thought was going to be the answer. "And how am I supposed to do that?"

"You asked one question. Why are you here?"

MacGyver hesitated. The boy suddenly raised the rifle to his head again.

"To gather intel on the Taliban for the military," MacGyver answered.

The boy smiled. It was not charming or friendly. It was the fake smile of a psychotic killer.

"That wasn't so hard, was it?"

"You speak excellent English."

"I do, don't I? I'll be back soon." He started to walk away.

"Where's Parbeen?"

"At the neighbors down the hall. She'll be back soon."

"Wait. Hold up."

The boy turned. He let out an exasperated sigh, indicating MacGyver was trying his patience.

"How do you expect me to save your sister?"

"You are going to take her to America when you leave here, you are going to get her citizenship and see that she finds a good family, and you will never let anything happen to her."

MacGyver looked at the boy's face.

"And where will you be during this?"

"Here."

"You don't want to come."

When the boy laughed, it was cold, heartless, and somehow condescending. He walked up to MacGyver.

"When I was seven and she was one year, the Taliban came to our village. They killed all the adult men. They took most of the girls and women to be sold or married. They made the young boys learn to fight. Some of us boys hid our sisters before they found them, but I was the only one who could keep my sister hidden for so long. That first time, she was almost dead when I came back with food and water. So, I brought her here to this temple, closer to where I was training and would serve the Taliban. I was learning how to kill people – people like you." The boy crouched, holding his rifle on his lap. "When you're a young boy and a soldier, one of four things happens to you. You may hate the killing and end up dead. You hate the killing and somehow escape, and when you're caught, you end up dead. You may go crazy and become too much of a liability, which means you drive or wear bombs so you can go to Allah as a warrior. Or," Milad shook his finger, making his point, "you find you enjoy killing in the name of Allah. Watching a head explode or blood gush when I slit a throat gives me great pleasure. I love to see the fear in their eyes. Do you, Angus MacGyver, want someone like me to come to America? To go into your schools? You won't know what day I may carry out my own justice or that of the Taliban, do you? Because I would rather kill you than keep you alive. Be you're lucky, American, that I need something from you."

MacGyver stared at him. He wasn't scared of the boy, even if, logically, he knew he should be. It broke MacGyver's heart to hear what the Taliban had done to this boy. He also didn't voice that Milad was right about going to America. Sooner or later, this side of him would surface, and he would end up dead. That broke MacGyver's heart even further – there was no way to save Milad. His life was here. All MacGyver could do now was help Milad ensure that Parbeen was protected.

"There must be something left in you. You're saving your sister."

"If they find her, they will rape and murder her. If she stays much longer, I will murder her. I think about it all the time now. But I have not risked my life to keep her alive this long to let them, or me, kill her. So, you are going to save her from me."

"When? When am I supposed to do that?"

"When I tell you that you will. They are watching all options of leaving the country because of you and your friend. When they are looking the other way, I will act. Until then, you will stay hidden with my sister, take care of her while I'm gone, and answer my questions when I come for information."

"So, you're really keeping me alive for information?"

"No. I am keeping you alive to save my sister. If you fail to help me do that, you'll no longer be useful to me. Any information you give me doesn't matter."

"You don't have a plan to get her and me out of here, do you?"

"The Taliban do not tell their soldiers plans too far in advance. For me to plan escape means for you both, I have to know what they will do. Do you have any more questions to keep me away longer from my post and cause suspicion? I can't help you if I'm dead."

"No. Go."

He stood and walked away. Milad stopped at the door, looking back at him.

"Can you cook? With a fire?" Milad motioned at the fire.

That was a strange question. "Yes," MacGyver answered.

"There's a sack of food with a little meat and two mangoes that she needs to eat. Make her something to eat and make her eat. She hasn't had meat or much Vitamin C in three weeks. She will tell you she's not hungry, but she is." Milad walked out of the room.

MacGyver made a face – something between a scoff and scowl. If his ankle wasn't so messed up, he'd have… He sighed. Knowing wishful thinking wasn't going to do him any good.