Page 135 - The Kite Runner

124 Khaled Hosseini

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!” Karim cried.
But before any of us could say or do a thing, Kamal’s father
shoved the barrel in his own mouth. I’ll never forget the echo of
that blast. Or the flash of light and the spray of red.
I doubled over again and dry-heaved on the side of the road.