； barren canvas that our lives had bee。
THE REST OF THAT RIDE is scattered bits and pieces of memory that e and go； most of it sounds and smells： MiGs roaring past overhead； staccatos of gunfire； a donkey braying nearby； the jingling of bells and mewling of sheep； gravel crushed under the truck s tires； a baby wailing in the dark； the stench of gasoline； vomit； and shit。
What I remember next is the blinding light of early morning as I climbed out of the fuel tank。 I remember turning my face up to the sky； squinting； breathing like the world was running out of air。
I lay on the side of the dirt road next to a rocky trench； looked up to the gray morning sky； thankful for air； thankful for light； thankful to be alive。
We re in Pakistan； Amir； Baba said。 He was standing over me。 Karim says he will call for a bus to take us to Peshawar。
I rolled onto my chest； still lying on the cool dirt； and saw our suitcases on either side of Baba s feet。 Through the upside down V between his legs； I saw the truck idling on the side of the road； the other refugees climbing down the rear ladder。 Beyond that； the dirt road unrolled through fields that were like leaden sheets under the gray sky and disappeared behind a line of bowl…shaped 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。
ELEVEN
Fremont； California。 1980s
Baba loved the idea of America。
It was living in America that gave him an ulcer。
I remember the two of us walking through Lake Elizabeth Park in Fremont； a few streets down from our apartment； and watching boys at batting practice； little girls giggling on the swings in the playground。 Baba would enlighten me with his politics during those walks with long…winded dissertations。 There are only three real men in this world； Amir； he d say。 He d count them off on his fingers： America the brash savior； Britain； and Israel。 The rest of them…… he used to wave his hand and make a phht sound ……they re like gossiping old women。
The bit about Israel used to draw the ire of Afghans in Fremont who accused him of being pro…J