She held like this, held, held, shivering, the cords in her neck stretched, sweat dripping from her face, her fingers crushing Mariam's.
Mariam would always admire Laila for how much time passed before she screamed.
40. Laila FALL 1999
It was Mariam's idea to dig the hole. One morning, she pointed to a patch of soil behind the toolshed.
“We can do it here,” she said. “This is a good spot.”
They took turns striking the ground with a spade, then shoveling the loose dirt aside.
They hadn't planned on a big hole, or a deep one, so the work of digging shouldn't have been as demanding as it turned out.
It was the drought, started in 1998, in its second year now, that was wreaking havoc everywhere.
It had hardly snowed that past winter and didn't rain at all that spring.
All over the country, farmers were leaving behind their parched lands, selling off their goods, roaming from village to village looking for water.
They moved to Pakistan or Iran. They settled in Kabul.
But water tables were low in the city too, and the shallow wells had dried up.
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