Page 91 - The Kite Runner

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 iron-
ing—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