Free The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini

Rahim Khan did. And maybe, just maybe, I would finally be pardoned for killing my mother.
    Baba was telling me about the time he’d cut fourteen kites on the same day. I smiled, nodded, laughed at all the right places,
     but I hardly heard a word he said. I had a mission now. And I wasn’t going to fail Baba. Not this time.
    IT SNOWED HEAVILY the night before the tournament. Hassan and I sat under the kursi and played panjpar as wind-rattled tree branches tapped on the window. Earlier that day, I’d asked Ali to set up the kursi for us—which was basically an electric heater under a low table covered with a thick, quilted blanket. Around the table, he
     arranged mattresses and cushions, so as many as twenty people could sit and slip their legs under. Hassan and I used to spend
     entire snowy days snug under the kursi, playing chess, cards—mostly panjpar.
    I killed Hassan’s ten of diamonds, played him two jacks and a six. Next door, in Baba’s study, Baba and Rahim Khan were discussing
     business with a couple of other men—one of them I recognized as Assef ’s father. Through the wall, I could hear the scratchy
     sound of Radio Kabul News.
    Hassan killed the six and picked up the jacks. On the radio, Daoud Khan was announcing something about foreign investments.
    “He says someday we’ll have television in Kabul,” I said.
    “Who?”
    “Daoud Khan, you ass, the president.”
    Hassan giggled. “I heard they already have it in Iran,” he said.
    I sighed. “Those Iranians . . .” For a lot of Hazaras, Iran represented a sanctuary of sorts—I guess because, like Hazaras,
     most Iranians were Shi’a Muslims. But I remembered something my teacher had said that summer about Iranians, that they were
     grinning smooth talkers who patted you on the back with one hand and picked your pocket with the other. I told Baba about
     that and he said my teacher was one of those jealous Afghans, jealous because Iran was a rising power in Asia and most people
     around the world couldn’t even find Afghanistan on a world map. “It hurts to say that,” he said, shrugging. “But better to
     get hurt by the truth than comforted with a lie.”
    “I’ll buy you one someday,” I said.
    Hassan’s face brightened. “A television? In truth?”
    “Sure. And not the black-and-white kind either. We’ll probably be grown-ups by then, but I’ll get us two. One for you and
     one for me.”
    “I’ll put it on my table, where I keep my drawings,” Hassan said.
    His saying that made me kind of sad. Sad for who Hassan was, where he lived. For how he’d accepted the fact that he’d grow
     old in that mud shack in the yard, the way his father had. I drew the last card, played him a pair of queens and a ten.
    Hassan picked up the queens. “You know, I think you’re going to make Agha sahib very proud tomorrow.”
    “You think so?”
    “ Inshallah,” he said.
    “ Inshallah,” I echoed, though the “God willing” qualifier didn’t sound as sincere coming from my lips. That was the thing with Hassan.
     He was so goddamn pure, you always felt like a phony around him.
    I killed his king and played him my final card, the ace of spades. He had to pick it up. I’d won, but as I shuffled for a
     new game, I had the distinct suspicion that Hassan had let me win.
    “Amir agha?”
    “What?”
    “You know . . . I like where I live.” He was always doing that, reading my mind. “It’s my home.”
    “Whatever,” I said. “Get ready to lose again.”

SEVEN
    The next morning, as he brewed black tea for breakfast, Hassan told me he’d had a dream. “We were at Ghargha Lake, you, me,
     Father, Agha sahib, Rahim Khan, and thousands of other people,” he said. “It was warm and sunny, and the lake was clear like
     a mirror. But no one was swimming because they said a monster had come to the lake. It was swimming at the bottom, waiting.”
    He poured me a cup and added sugar, blew on it a few times. Put it before me. “So