Later, after they'd eaten a lunch of boiled eggs and potatoes with bread, Tariq napped beneath a tree on the banks of a gurgling stream.
He slept with his coat neatly folded into a pillow, his hands crossed on his chest.
The driver went to the village to buy almonds. Babi sat at the foot of a thick trunked acacia tree reading a paperback.
Laila knew the book; he'd read it to her once. It told the story of an old fisherman named Santiago who catches an enormous fish.
But by the time he sails his boat to safety, there is nothing left of his prize fish; the sharks have torn it to pieces.
Laila sat on the edge of the stream, dipping her feet into the cool water.
Overhead, mosquitoes hummed and cottonwood seeds danced. A dragonfly whirred nearby.
Laila watched its wings catch glints of sunlight as it buzzed from one blade of grass to another. They flashed purple, then green, orange.
Across the stream, a group of local Hazara boys were picking patties of dried cow dung from the ground
and stowing them into burlap sacks tethered to their backs.
Somewhere, a donkey brayed. A generator sputtered to life.
Laila thought again about Babi's little dream. Somewhere near the sea.
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