ow with prizes for the kite runners。 I could hear the runners now； hollering as they ran the streets。 Someone shouted reports of a fight breaking out two streets down。
I kept stealing glances at Baba sitting with Rahim Khan on the roof； wondered what he was thinking。 Was he cheering for me？ Or did a part of him enjoy watching me fail？ That was the thing about kite flying： Your mind drifted with the kite。
They were ing down all over the place now； the kites； and I was still flying。 I was still flying。 My eyes kept wandering over to Baba； bundled up in his wool sweater。 Was he surprised I had lasted as long as I had？ You don t keep your eyes to the sky； you won t last much longer。 I snapped my gaze back to the sky。 A red kite was closing in on me……I d caught it just in time。 I tangled a bit with it； ended up besting him when he became impatient and tried to cut me from below。
Up and down the streets； kite runners were returning triumphantly； their captured kites held high。 They showed them off to their parents； their friends。 But they all knew the best was yet to e。 The biggest prize of all was still flying。 I sliced a bright yellow kite with a coiled white tail。 It cost me another gash on the index finger and blood trickled down into my palm。 I had Hassan hold the string and sucked the blood dry； blotted my finger against my jeans。
Within another hour； the number of surviving kites dwindled from maybe fifty to a dozen。 I was one of them。 I d made it to the last dozen。 I knew this part of the tournament would take a while； because the guys who had lasted this long
were good……they wouldn t easily fall into simple traps like the old lift…and…dive； Hassan s favorite trick。
By three o clock that afternoon； tufts of clouds had drifted in and the sun had slipped behind them。 Shadows started to lengthen。 The spectators on the roofs bundled up in scarves and thick coats。 We were down to a half dozen and I was still flying。 My legs ached and my neck was stiff。 But with each defeated kite； hope grew in my heart； like snow collecting on a wall； one flake at a time。
My eyes kept returning to a blue kite that had been wreaking havoc for the last hour。
How many has he cut？ I asked。
I counted eleven； Hassan said。
Do you know whose it might be？
Hassan clucked his tongue and tipped his chin。 That was a trademark Hassan gesture； meant he had no idea。 The blue kite sliced a big purple one and swept twice in big loops。 Ten minutes later； he d cut another two； sending hordes of kite runners racing after them。
After another thirty minutes； only four kites remained。 And I was still flying。 It seemed I could hardly make a wrong move； as if every gust of wind blew in my favor。 I d never felt so in mand； so lucky It felt intoxicating。 I didn t dare look up to the roof。 Didn t dare take my eyes off the sky。 I had to concentrate； play it smart。 Another fifteen minutes and what had seemed like a laughable dream that morning had suddenly bee reality： It was just me and the other guy。 The blue kite。
The tension in the air was as taut as the glass string I was tugging with my bloody hands。 People were stomping their feet； clapping； whistling； chanting； Boboresh！ Boboresh！ Cut him！ Cut him！ I wondered if Baba s voice was one of them。 Music blasted。 The smell of steamed mantu and fried pakora drifted from rooftops and open doors。
But all I heard……all I willed myself to hear……was the thudding of blood in my head。 All I saw was the blue kite。 All I smelled was victory。 Salvation。 Redemption。 If Baba was wrong and there was a God like they said in school； then He d let me win。 I didn t know what the other guy was playing for； maybe just bragging rights。 But this was my one chance to bee someone who was looked at； not seen； listened to； not heard。 If there was a God； He d guide the winds； let them blow for me so that； with a tug of my string； I d cut loose my pain； my longing。 I d endured too much； e too far。 And suddenly； just like that； hope became knowledge。 I was going to win。 It was just a matter of when。
It turned out to be sooner than later。 A gust of wind lifted my kite and I took advantage。 Fed the string； pulled up。 Looped my kite on top of the blue one。 I held position。 The blue kite knew it was in trouble。 It was trying desperately to maneuver out of the jam； but I didn t let go。 I held position。 The crowd sensed the end was at hand。 The chorus of Cut him！ Cut him！ grew louder； like Romans chanting for the gladiators to kill； kill！
You re almost there； Amir agha！ Almost there！ Hassan was panting。
Then the moment came。 I closed my eyes and loosened my grip on the string。 It sliced my fingers again as the wind dragged it。 And then。。。 I didn t need to hear the crowd s roar to know I didn t need to see either。 Hassan was screaming and his arm was wrapped around my neck。
Bravo！ Bravo； Amir agha！
I opened my eyes； saw the blue kite spinning wildly like a tire e loose from a speeding car。 I blinked； tried to say something。 Nothing came out。 Suddenly I was hovering； looking down on myself from above。 Black leather coat； red scarf； faded jeans。 A thin boy； a little sallow； and a tad short for his twelve years。 He had narrow shoulders and a hint of dark circles around his pale hazel eyes。 The breeze rustled his light brown hair。 He looked up to me and we smiled at each other。
Then I was screaming； and everything was color and sound； everything was alive and good。 I was throwing my free arm around Hassan and we were hopping up and down； both of us laughing； both of us weeping。 You won； Amir agha！ You won！
We won！ We won！ was all I could say。 This wasn t happening。 In a mome