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evil explorers who ve discovered a giant prehistoric monster in some distant jungle and we ve brought it back for the world to see。 We set it down in the wooden wagon Ali built Hassan last winter for his birthday； pretend it s a giant steel cage。 Behold the firebreathing monstrosity！ We march on the grass and pull the wagon behind us； around apple and cherry trees； which bee skyscrap ers soaring into clouds； heads poking out of thousands of windows to watch the spectacle passing below。 We walk over the little semi lunar bridge Baba has built near a cluster of fig trees； it bees a great suspension bridge joining cities； and the little pond below； a foamy sea。 Fireworks explode above the bridge s massive pylons and armed soldiers salute us on both sides as gigantic steel cables shoot to the sky。 The little turtle bouncing around in the cab； we drag the wagon around the circular red brick driveway outside the wroughtiron gates and return the salutes of the world s leaders as they stand and applaud。 We are Hassan and Amir； famed adventurers and the world s greatest explorers； about to receive a medal of honor for our courageous feat。。。
GINGERLY； I WALKED up the driveway where tufts of weed now grew between the sun…faded bricks。 I stood outside the gates of my father s house； feeling like a stranger。 I set my hands on the rusty bars； remembering how I d run through these same gates thousands of times as a child； for things that mattered not at all now and yet had seemed so important then。 I peered in。
The driveway extension that led from the gates to the yard； where Hassan and I took turns falling the summer we learned to ride a bike； didn t look as wide or as long as I remembered it。 The asphalt had split in a lightning…streak pattern； and more tangles of weed sprouted through the fissures。 Most of the poplar trees had been chopped down……the trees Hassan and I used to climb to shine our mirrors into the neighbors homes。 The ones still standing were nearly leafless。 The Wall of Ailing Corn was still there； though I saw no corn； ailing or otherwise； along that wall now。 The paint had begun to peel and sections of it had sloughed off altogether。 The lawn had turned the same brown as the haze of dust hovering over the city； dotted by bald patches of dirt where nothing grew at all。
A jeep was parked in the driveway and that looked all wrong：
Baba s black Mustang belonged there。 For years； the Mustang s eight cylinders roared to life every morning； rousing me from sleep。 I saw that oil had spilled under the jeep and stained the driveway like a big Rorschach inkblot。 Beyond the jeep； an empty wheelbarrow lay on its side。 I saw no sign of the rosebushes that Baba and Ali had planted on the left side of the driveway； only dirt that spilled onto the asphalt。 And weeds。
Farid honked twice behind me。 We should go； Agha。 We ll draw attention； he called。
Just give me one more minute； I said。
The house itself was far from the sprawling white mansion I remembered from my childhood。 It looked smaller。 The roof sagged and the plaster was cracked。 The windows to the living room； the foyer； and the upstairs guest bathroom were broken； patched haphazardly with sheets of clear plastic or wooden boards nailed across the frames。 The paint； once sparkling white； had faded to ghostly gray and eroded in parts； revealing the layered bricks beneath。 The front steps had crumbled。 Like so much else in Kabul； my father s house was the picture of fallen splendor。
I found the window to my old bedroom； second floor； third window sOuth of the main steps to the house。 I stood on tiptoes； saw not