Free The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini Page A

everyone is scared to get in the water,
     and suddenly you kick off your shoes, Amir agha, and take off your shirt. ‘There’s no monster,’ you say. ‘I’ll show you all.’
     And before anyone can stop you, you dive into the water, start swimming away. I follow you in and we’re both swimming.”
    “But you can’t swim.”
    Hassan laughed. “It’s a dream, Amir agha, you can do anything. Anyway, everyone is screaming, ‘Get out! Get out!’ but we just
     swim in the cold water. We make it way out to the middle of the lake and we stop swimming. We turn toward the shore and wave
     to the people. They look small like ants, but we can hear them clapping. They see now. There is no monster, just water. They
     change the name of the lake after that, and call it the ‘Lake of Amir and Hassan, Sultans of Kabul,’ and we get to charge
     people money for swimming in it.”
    “So what does it mean?” I said.
    He coated my naan with marmalade, placed it on a plate. “I don’t know. I was hoping you could tell me.”
    “Well, it’s a dumb dream. Nothing happens in it.”
    “Father says dreams always mean something.”
    I sipped some tea. “Why don’t you ask him, then? He’s so smart,” I said, more curtly than I had intended. I hadn’t slept all
     night. My neck and back were like coiled springs, and my eyes stung. Still, I had been mean to Hassan. I almost apologized,
     then didn’t. Hassan understood I was just nervous. Hassan always understood about me.
    Upstairs, I could hear the water running in Baba’s bathroom.
    THE STREETS GLISTENED with fresh snow and the sky was a blameless blue. Snow blanketed every rooftop and weighed on the branches
     of the stunted mulberry trees that lined our street. Overnight, snow had nudged its way into every crack and gutter. I squinted
     against the blinding white when Hassan and I stepped through the wrought-iron gates. Ali shut the gates behind us. I heard
     him mutter a prayer under his breath—he always said a prayer when his son left the house.
    I had never seen so many people on our street. Kids were flinging snowballs, squabbling, chasing one another, giggling. Kite
     fighters were huddling with their spool holders, making last-minute preparations. From adjacent streets, I could hear laughter
     and chatter. Already, rooftops were jammed with spectators reclining in lawn chairs, hot tea steaming from thermoses, and
     the music of Ahmad Zahir blaring from cassette players. The immensely popular Ahmad Zahir had revolutionized Afghan music
     and outraged the purists by adding electric guitars, drums, and horns to the traditional tabla and harmonium; on stage or
     at par ties, he shirked the austere and nearly morose stance of older singers and actually smiled when he sang—sometimes even
     at women. I turned my gaze to our rooftop, found Baba and Rahim Khan sitting on a bench, both dressed in wool sweaters, sipping
     tea. Baba waved. I couldn’t tell if he was waving at me or Hassan.
    “We should get started,” Hassan said. He wore black rubber snow boots and a bright green chapan over a thick sweater and faded corduroy pants. Sunlight washed over his face, and, in it, I saw how well the pink scar above
     his lip had healed.
    Suddenly I wanted to withdraw. Pack it all in, go back home. What was I thinking? Why was I putting myself through this, when
     I already knew the outcome? Baba was on the roof, watching me. I felt his glare on me like the heat of a blistering sun. This
     would be failure on a grand scale, even for me.
    “I’m not sure I want to fly a kite today,” I said.
    “It’s a beautiful day,” Hassan said.
    I shifted on my feet. Tried to peel my gaze away from our rooftop. “I don’t know. Maybe we should go home.”
    Then he stepped toward me and, in a low voice, said something that scared me a little. “Remember, Amir agha. There’s no monster,
     just a beautiful day.” How could I be such an open book to him when, half the time, I had no