tching sound。
Baba sighed behind me and dropped the bags。
Karim told us it should be a matter of a couple of short days before the truck was fixed。 Then we d be on our way to Peshawar。 On to freedom。 On to safety。
The basement was our home for the next week and； by the third night； I discovered the source of the scratching sounds。 Rats。
ONCE MY EYES ADJUSTED to the dark； I counted about thirty refugees in that basement。 We sat shoulder to shoulder along the walls； ate crackers； bread with dates； apples。 That first night； all the men prayed together。 One of the refugees asked Baba why he wasn t joining them。 God is going to save us all。 Why don t you pray to him？
Baba snorted a pinch of his snuff。 Stretched his legs。 What ll save us is eight cylinders and a good carburetor。 That silenced the rest of them for good about the matter of God。
It was later that first night when I discovered that two of the people hiding with us were Kamal and his father。 That was shocking enough； seeing Kamal sitting in the basement just a few feet away from me。 But when he and his father came over to our side of the room and I saw Kamal s face； really saw it。。。
He had withered……there was simply no other word for it。 His eyes gave me a hollow look and no recognition at all registered in them。 His shoulders hunched and his cheeks sagged like they were too tired to cling to the bone beneath。 His father； who d owned a movie theater in Kabul； was telling Baba how； three months before； a stray bullet had struck his wife in the temple 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