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emple and killed her。 Then he told Baba about Kamal。 I caught only snippets of it： Should have never let him go alone。。。 always so handsome； you know。。。 four of them。。。 tried to fight。。。 God。。。 took him。。。 bleeding down there。。。 his pants。。。 doesn t talk any more。。。 just stares。。。
THERE WOULD BE NO TRUCK； Karim told us after we d spent a week in the rat…infested basement。 The truck was beyond repair。
There is another option； Karim said； his voice rising amid the groans。 His cousin owned a fuel truck and had smuggled people with it a couple of times。 He was here in Jalalabad and could probably fit us all。
Everyone except an elderly couple decided to go。
We left that night； Baba and I； Kamal and his father； the others。 Karim and his cousin； a square…faced balding man named Aziz； helped us get into the fuel tank。 One by one； we mounted the idling truck s rear deck； climbed the rear access ladder； and slid down into the tank。 I remember Baba climbed halfway up the
ladder； hopped back down and fished the snuffbox from his pocket。 He emptied the box and picked up a handful of dirt from the middle of the unpaved road。 He kissed the dirt。 Poured it into the box。 Stowed the box in his breast pocket； next to his heart。
PANIC。
You open your mouth。 Open it so wide your jaws creak。 You order your lungs to draw air； NOW； you need air； need it NOW But your airways ignore you。 They collapse； tighten； squeeze； and suddenly you re breathing through a drinking straw。 Your mouth closes and your lips purse and all you can manage is a strangled croak。 Your hands wriggle and shake。 Somewhere a dam has cracked open and a flood of cold sweat spills； drenches your body。 You want to scream。 You would if you could。 But you have to breathe to scream。
Panic。
The basement had been dark。 The fuel tank was pitch…black。 I looked right； left； up； down； waved my hands before my eyes； didn t see so much as a hint of movement。 I blinked； blinked again。 Nothing at all。 The air wasn t right； it was too thick； almost solid。 Air wasn t supposed to be solid。 I wanted to reach out with my hands； crush the air into little pieces； stuff them down my windpipe。 And the stench of gasoline。 My eyes stung from the fumes； like someone had peeled my lids back and rubbed a lemon on them。 My nose caught fire with each breath。 You could die in a place like this； I thought。 A scream was ing。 ing； ing。。。
And then a small miracle。 Baba tugged at my sleeve and some thing glowed green in the dark。 Light！ Baba s wristwatch。 I kept my eyes glued to those fluorescent green hands。 I was so afraid I d lose them； I didn t dare blink。
Slowly I became aware of my surroundings。 I heard groans and muttered prayers。 I heard a baby cry； its mother s muted soothing。 Someone retched。 Someone else cursed the Shorawi。 The truck bounced side to side； up and down。 Heads banged against metal。
Think of something good； Baba said in my ear。 Something happy。
Something good。 Something happy。 I let my mind wander。 I let it e：
Friday afternoon in Paghman。 An open field of grass speckled with mulberry trees in blossom。 Hassan and I stand ankle…deep in untamed grass； I am tugging on the line； the spool spinning in Hassan s calloused hands； our eyes turned up to the kite in the sky。 Not a word passes between us； not because we have nothing to say； but because we don t have to say anything……that s how it is between people who are each other s first memories； people who have fed from the same breast。 A breeze stirs the grass and Hassan lets the spool roll。 The kite spins； dips； steadies。 Our twin shadows dance on the rippling grass。 From somewhere over the low brick wall at the other end of the field； we hear chatter and laughter and the chirping of a water fountain。 And music； some thing old and familiar； I think it s Ya Mowlah on rubab strings。 Someone calls our names over the wall； says it s time for tea and cake。
I didn t remember what month that was； or what year even。 I only knew the memory lived in me； a perfectly encapsulated morsel of a good past； a brushstroke of color on the gray； barren canvas that our lives had bee。
THE REST OF THAT RIDE is scattered bits and pieces of memory that e and go； most of it sounds and smells： MiGs roaring past overhead； staccatos of gunfire； a donkey braying nearby； the jingling of bells and mewling of sheep； gravel crushed under the truck s tires； a baby wailing in the dark； the stench of gasoline； vomit； and shit。
What I remember next is the blinding light of early morning as I climbed out of the fuel tank。 I remember turning my face up to the sky； squinting； breathing like the world was running out of air。
I lay on the side of the dirt road next to a rocky trench； looked up to the gray morning sky； thankful for air； thankful for light； thankful to be alive。
We re in Pakistan； Amir； Baba said。 He was standing over me。 Karim says he will call for a bus to take us to Peshawar。
I rolled onto my chest； still lying on the cool dirt； and saw our suitcases on either side of Baba s feet。 Through the upside down V between his legs； I saw the truck idling on the side of the road； the other refugees climbing down the rear ladder。 Beyond that； the dirt road unrolled through fields that were like leaden sheets under the gray sky and disappeared behind a line of bowl…shaped hills。 Along the way； it passed a small village strung out atop a sun baked slope。
My eyes returned to our suitcases。 They made me sad for Baba。 After everything he d built； planned； fought for； fretted over； dreamed of； this was the summation of his life： one disappointing son and two suitcases。
Someone was screaming。 No； not screaming。 Wailing。 I saw the passengers huddled in a circle； heard their urgent voices。 Someone said the word fumes。 Someone else said it too。 The wail turned into a throat…ripping screech。
Baba and I hurried to the pack of onlookers and pushed our way through them。 Kamal s father was sitting cross…legged in the center of the circle； rocking back and forth； kissing his son s ashen face。
He won t breathe！ My boy won t breathe！ he was crying。 Kamal s lifeless body lay on his father s lap。 His right hand； uncurled and limp； bounced to the rhythm of his father s sobs。 My boy！ He won t breathe！ Allah； help him breathe！
Baba knelt beside him and curled an arm around his shoulder。 But Kamal s father shoved him away and lunged for Karim who was standing nearby with his cousin。 What happened next was too fast and too short to be called a scuffle。 Karim uttered a surprised cry and backpedaled。 I saw an arm swing； a leg kick。 A moment later； Kamal s father was standing with Karim s gun in his hand。
Don t shoot me！ K