Page 304 - The Kite Runner

TWENTY-THREE

Faces poke through the haze, linger, fade away. They peer down,
ask me questions. They all ask questions. Do I know who I am?
Do I hurt anywhere? I know who I am and I hurt everywhere. I
want to tell them this but talking hurts. I know this because some
time ago, maybe a year ago, maybe two, maybe ten, I tried to talk
to a child with rouge on his cheeks and eyes smeared black. The
child. Yes, I see him now. We are in a car of sorts, the child and I,
and I don’t think Soraya’s driving because Soraya never drives this
fast. I want to say something to this child—it seems very impor-
tant that I do. But I don’t remember what I want to say, or why it
might have been important. Maybe I want to tell him to stop cry-
ing, that everything will be all right now. Maybe not. For some
reason I can’t think of, I want to thank the child.
Faces. They’re all wearing green hats. They slip in and out of
view. They talk rapidly, use words I don’t understand. I hear other
voices, other noises, beeps and alarms. And always more faces.
Peering down. I don’t remember any of them, except for the one