She didn't sit up, didn't want to be seen. She imagined all of Herat knew this morning how she'd disgraced herself.
She wished Mullah Faizullah were here so she could put her head on his lap and let him comfort her.
After a while, the road became bumpier and the nose of the car pointed up.
They were on the uphill road between Herat and Gul Daman. What would she say to Nana, Mariam wondered.
How would she apologize? How could she even face Nana now?
The car stopped and the driver helped her out. “I'll walk you,” he said.
She let him guide her across the road and up the track. There was honeysuckle growing along the path, and milkweed too.
Bees were buzzing over twinkling wildflowers. The driver took her hand and helped her cross the stream.
Then he let go, and he was talking about how Herat's famous one hundred and twenty days' winds would start blowing soon,
from midmorning to dusk, and how the sand flies would go on a feeding frenzy,
and then suddenly he was standing in front of her, trying to cover her eyes,
pushing her back the way they had come and saying, “Go back! No. Don't look now. Turn around! Go back!”
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