Aziza pleads. Laila can't hear her screams. Only for a while, she calls down, it's only for a while.
It's the raids, don't you know, my love? When the raids are over, Mammy and Khala Mariam will dig you out.
I promise, my love. Then we can play. We can play all you want.
She fills the shovel. Laila woke up, out of breath, with a taste of soil in her mouth, when the first granular lumps of dirt hit the plastic.
41. Mariam
In the summer of 2000, the drought reached its third and worst year.
In Helmand, Zabol, Kandahar, villages turned into herds of nomadic communities, always moving,
searching for water and green pastures for their livestock.
When they found neither, when their goats and sheep and cows died off, they came to Kabul.
They took to the Kareh Ariana hillside, living in makeshift slums, packed in huts, fifteen or twenty at a time.
That was also the summer of Titanic, the summer that Mariam and Aziza were a tangle of limbs,
rolling and giggling, Aziza insisting she get to be Jack.
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