Page 132 - The Kite Runner

The Kite Runner 121

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 oth-
ers. 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