eady； he says。
The mullah finishes the prayer。 Ameen。 He picks up the kitchen knife with the long blade。 The custom is to not let the sheep see the knife。 All feeds the animal a cube of sugar……another custom； to make death sweeter。 The sheep kicks； but not much。 The mullah grabs it under its jaw and places the blade on its neck。 Just a second before he slices the throat in one expert motion； I see the sheep s eyes。 It is a look that will haunt my dreams for weeks。 I don t know why I watch this yearly ritual in our backyard； my nightmares persist long after the bloodstains on the grass have faded。 But I always watch。 I watch because of that look of acceptance in the animal s eyes。 Absurdly； I imagine the animal understands。 I imagine the animal sees that its imminent demise is for a higher purpose。 This is the look。。。
I STOPPED WATCHING； turned away from the alley。 Something warm was running down my wrist。 I blinked； saw I was still biting down on my fist； hard enough to draw blood from the knuckles。 I realized something else。 I was weeping。 From just around the corner； I could hear Assef s quick； rhythmic grunts。
I had one last chance to make a decision。 One final opportunity to decide who I was going to be。 I could step into that alley； stand up for Hassan……the way he d stood up for me all those times in the past……and accept whatever would happen to me。 Or I could run。
In the end； I ran。
I ran because I was a coward。 I was afraid of Assef and what he would do to me。 I was afraid of getting hurt。 That s what I told myself as I turned my back to the alley； to Hassan。 That s what I made myself believe。 I actually aspired to
cowardice； because the alternative； the real reason I was running； was that Assef was right： Nothing was free in this world。 Maybe Hassan was the price I had to pay； the lamb I had to slay； to win Baba。 Was it a fair price？ The answer floated to my conscious mind before I could thwart it： He was just a Hazara； wasn t he？
I ran back the way I d e。 Ran back to the all but deserted bazaar。 I lurched to a cubicle and leaned against the padlocked swinging doors。 I stood there panting； sweating； wishing things had turned out some other way。
About fifteen minutes later； I heard voices and running footfalls。 I crouched behind the cubicle and watched Assef and the other two sprinting by； laughing as they hurried down the deserted
lane。 I forced myself to wait ten more minutes。 Then I walked back to the rutted track that ran along the snow…filled ravine。 I squinted in the dimming light and spotted Hassan walking slowly toward me。 I met him by a leafless birch tree on the edge of the ravine。
He had the blue kite in his hands； that was the first thing I saw。 And I can t lie now and say my eyes didn t scan it for any rips。 His chapan had mud smudges down the front and his shirt was ripped just below the collar。 He stopped。 Swayed on his feet like he was going to collapse。 Then he steadied himself。 Handed me the kite。
Where were you？ I looked for you； I said。 Speaking those words was like chewing on a rock。
Hassan dragged a sleeve across his face； wiped snot and tears。 I waited for him to say something； but we just stood there in silence； in the fading light。 I was grateful for the early…evening shadows that fell on Hassan s face and concealed mine。 I was glad I didn t have to return his gaze。 Did he know I knew？ And if he knew； then what would I see if I did look in his eyes？ Blame？ Indignation？ Or； God forbid； what I feared most： guileless devotion？ That； most of all； I couldn t bear to see。
He began to say something and his voice cracked。 He closed his mouth； opened it； and closed it again。 Took a step back。 Wiped his face。 And that was as close as Hassan and I ever came to discussing what had happened in the alley。 I thought he might burst into tears； but； to my relief； he didn t； and I pretended I hadn t heard the crack in his voice。 Just like I pretended I hadn t seen the dark stain in the seat of his pants。 Or those tiny drops that fell from between his legs and stained the snow black。
Agha sahib will worry； was all he said。 He turned from me and limped away。
IT HAPPENED JUST THE WAY I d imagined。 I opened the door to the smoky study and stepped in。 Baba and Rahim Khan were drinking tea and listening to the news crackling on the radio。 Their heads turned。 Then a smile played on my father s lips。 He opened his arms。 I put the kite down and walked into his thick hairy arms。 I buried my face in the warmth of his chest and wept。 Baba held me close to him； rocking me back and forth。 In his arms； I forgot what I d done。 And that was good。
EIGHT
For a week； I barely saw Hassan。 I woke up to find toasted bread； brewed tea； and a boiled egg already on the kitchen table。 My clothes for the day were
ironed and folded； left on the cane…seat chair in the foyer where Hassan usually did his ironing。 He used to wait for me to sit at the breakfast table before he started ironing……that way； we could talk。 Used to sing too； over the hissing of the iron； sang old Hazara songs about tulip fields。 Now only the folded clothes greeted me。 That； and a breakfast I hardly finished anymore。
One overcast morning； as I was pushing the boiled egg around on my plate； Ali walked in cradling a pile of chopped wood。 I asked him where Hassan was。
He went back to sleep； Ali said； kneeling before the stove。 He pulled the little square door open。
Would Hassan be able to play today？
Ali paused with a log in his hand。 A worried look crossed his face。 Lately； it seems all he wants to do is sleep。 He does his chores……I see to that……but then he just wants to crawl under his blank