The doctor must have heard accusation in this question, judging by the defensive shift in her tone.
“You think I want it this way?” she said. “What do you want me to do? They won't give me what I need.
I have no X-ray either, no suction, no oxygen, not even simple antibiotics.
When NGOs offer money, the Taliban turn them away. Or they funnel the money to the places that cater to men.”
“But, Doctor sahib, isn't there something you can give her?” Mariam asked.
“What's going on?” Laila moaned. “You can buy the medicine yourself, but—”
“Write the name,” Mariam said. “You write it down and I'll get it.”
Beneath the burqa, the doctor shook her head curtly. “There is no time,” she said.
“For one thing, none of the nearby pharmacies have it.”
“So you'd have to fight through traffic from one place to the next, maybe all the way across town, with little likelihood that you'd ever find it.”
It's almost eight-thirty now, so you'll probably get arrested for breaking curfew.
Even if you find the medicine, chances are you can't afford it. Or you'll find yourself in a bidding war with someone just as desperate.”
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