MacGyver was surprised at how good Parbeen was at Backgammon and Go. He had no idea how many times they'd played, but he hadn't won many, and he had tried after realizing how good she was. It was one of the few things they had to do while they waited for Milad to return. They'd wiled the time away by reading every book in the cave and playing card games. She'd put on a play of one of her favorite stories, playing all parts of it. It was a violent fairytale, but Persian fairytales weren't the kind that Disney loved. They were dark as the original Grimm tales. He'd taught her as many science tricks as he could with their limited supplies. When he discovered she loved to learn, he began teaching her other subjects. They had already reached sixth-grade science, geometry, and some trigonometry, and she had learned the high school-level words in the books. Milad must have known this about her, and MacGyver could see why saving her was so important to him. This child was a prodigy.

But when they heard heavy footsteps coming, they had returned to playing Backgammon.

Both looked at the entrance when they heard heavy boots coming. Parbeen stood, moving close to MacGyver. He let her take his hand, even though he knew he couldn't fight anyone off in the shape he was in.

They both let out their held breath when Milad entered. He carried a heavy plastic sack and a rifle. He sat the bag near the fire and propped his rifle by the opening. Then he looked at them.

For several minutes no one spoke. Then Parbeen ran over and hugged him. He half-heartedly returned the hug.

"I brought more food. You probably ran out," he said.

"We need water, too," MacGyver told him.

He nodded a couple times as he spoke to Parbeen in Farsi. She grabbed the bag and began putting things on rickety makeshift shelves. Milad walked over, crouching in front of MacGyver.

He scratched his chin, not that he was old enough to have facial hair yet. On the other hand, MacGyver had two days of growth and hated it. He scratched his chin from the suggestion.

"Tell me again. Why did you come to Iran?" Milad asked.

The question surprised MacGyver. Since the last conversation about why MacGyver was in Iran, Milad hadn't shown any further interest.

"I'm a tourist."

Milad shook his head. "I'm a child only by looks. I know you're here for something. Do you know what the Talisman leaders and heads believe?"

"No."

"You're an assassin."

MacGyver chuckled. "Of course, they'd say that."

"You broke into a prison and escaped before they caught you, but you took nothing. Then you broke into a government building. You disabled the alarm with a paperclip, a chewing gum wrapper, and staples. You accessed a computer, but someone, somewhere, erased what you looked at. Once again, you escaped before Taliban soldiers caught you. So, you are clearly looking for something. What is it?"

The two stared at each other. Milad scrubbed his non-existing facial hair again.

"You are looking at our weapons. And for that, I will not protect you or entrust my sister." Milad stood up. "This is your end." He turned away, walking toward his gun.

MacGyver noticed that Parbeen was watching them, looking worried and scared. He caught his breath when he heard the rifle cock and looked at Milad. The boy walked back toward him as he released the safety on the rifle. He stopped walking and rested the muzzle against the bridge of MacGyver's nose.

"If I shoot here, you will take 5 minutes to bleed out, and it will be excruciating." He moved the gun down to MacGyver's throat. "Ten minutes of pain." He lowered the gun to just over MacGyver's lung. "Could be days before you drown in your own blood, or only hours, but you will feel every panic minute." Slowly the gun moved down between MacGyver's legs. "Pain and you will never have children if you survive." He stopped when he moved the muzzle right over the femoral artery in MacGyver's leg. "I only have to nick that artery for you to spend days of pain while you bleed to death." Milad pulled the rifle back. "Your answer decides how fast you die."

MacGyver's eyes darted to Parbeen. The little girl had lost all color in her face and was on the verge of tears. She would scream as soon as the gun went off. He looked back at Milad. He knew the boy was purposely dragging out pulling the trigger. Was he doing it because he didn't want to traumatize a six-year-old or as an interrogation tactic? Which of those did MacGyver want to live by. He chose to protect Parbeen from a horrific sight.

"I'm looking for a journalist. Jeffery Michaels," MacGyver blurted.

Milad didn't lower his rifle. "Why?"

MacGyver sighed. "He had been sending articles to international outlets, describing how citizens, women, and foreigners were being treated. He'd been doing it under a pen name, but we think someone learned his real name. Suddenly the articles stopped being submitted, and no one could reach him. The last article received from him was about the prison. I'm trying to find him to take him back to America."

Milad lowered his rifle. "And if he's dead?"

"Find his belongings, if I can, and take them back. He was staying on the streets to keep his identity secret. I need to find him, or his belongings if he's dead."

"You risked your life to find some journalist? Someone who knew he could be killed for reporting to America. He was a stupid infidel."

"Do you know what infidel even means?"

"Yes. Americans."

MacGyver shook his head. "It means someone who doesn't believe in a religion or who doesn't practice your religion, Milad. The Taliban have killed millions who didn't follow their religion. Do you think it's right that people should die for having a different religious belief?"

"What did this friend of yours believe in?"

"Honestly, I don't know. But I do know he cared about families here who were his friends. You don't need to be religious to care about others. A daughter of one of those families was the first woman to attend college in their family. She was about to graduate as a doctor when the Taliban took over. Now, she can't even leave her house to save anyone! Not that I'd expect a child to understand that!"

Milad hand tightened around his rifle, and anger darkened his black eyes. "I am no child."

"You are no adult. You fight because they told you to."

"I fight for Allah and my country!"

"You fight because you don't know any better, which is what a child would do."

The rifle sprung up as he rushed forward. The cold metal of the muzzle slammed into MacGyver's head, but he was prepared and didn't let him push him back. He bit down when his headache rushed back, and the bruises and cuts on his face screamed out.

The two glared at each other for what felt like centuries.

"You know nothing about me, about what I've done to keep her and me alive before the Taliban came. Now I can feed us."

"Then why are you hiding your sister, and why do you want her to become an American and get an education far from here? You, Milad, may have been through a lot, but you clearly don't trust the Taliban like you're pretending to. And I get it. You're doing what many children do in bad situations – you pretend for those in control to stay alive. There's no shame in doing that. But if you trusted this group like you say, you wouldn't be asking me to take your sister when I leave."

"I am not a child."

MacGyver just raised his eyebrows. He refused to argue the semantics of age right now when there were more significant elephant issues in the room.

Milad slowly backed up, his finger flipping the safety on the rifle. He spun and ran out.

MacGyver closed his eyes. He put his hand over his forehead as the pain increased.

A small, cool hand laid over his hand. He looked into Parbeen eyes. She was silently crying. He opened his arms. She climbed into his lap and clung to him, sobbing into his shirt. MacGyver grimaced through the pain; it was nothing compared to the scared child's pain.