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Elif woke up very early, when the sky was still pink. “Hurry,” whispered Grandma. “The balloons are coming!”
They climbed onto the flat roof of their house with two cups of warm milk. One by one, hot-air balloons rose over the rocky hills: a red one, a yellow one, a striped one. Elif counted twenty-three!
Suddenly, a blue balloon began to float down, lower and lower. It landed softly in the field next to their garden. The basket bumped and wobbled, and the people inside cheered.
The pilot climbed out and waved. “Good morning!” he called. “Would you like to help me fold the balloon?” Elif ran down the stairs so fast that she nearly forgot her shoes.
The balloon was as big as a house and as soft as a bedsheet. Elif and Grandma pulled and folded until it was a neat bundle. “Thank you, helpers,” said the pilot. That night, Elif dreamed she was floating high above the hills.
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