Page 391 - Leadership in the Indian Army

mosquitoes hovering in front of her face. Here she sees the low-slung

mountains in the horizon, a few cottonwoods, some poplars, various wild
bushes that she cannot name.

"There used to be a stream here," Hamza says, a little out of breath.

"But it's long dried up now."

He says he will wait here. He tells her to cross the dry streambed, walk

toward the mountains.

"I'll wait here," he says, sitting on a rock beneath a poplar. "You go on."

"I won't-"

"Don't worry. Take your time. Go on, hamshireh."

Laila thanks him. She crosses the streambed, stepping from one stone
to another. She spots broken soda bottles amid the rocks, rusted cans,

and a mold-coated metallic container with a zinc lid half buried in the

ground.

She heads toward the mountains, toward the weeping willows, which

she can see now, the long drooping branches shaking with each gust of

wind. In her chest, her heart is drumming. She sees that the willows are

arranged as Mariam had said, in a circular grove with a clearing in the
middle. Laila walks faster, almost running now. She looks back over her

shoulder and sees that Hamza is a tiny figure, his chapan a burst of color

against the brown of the trees' bark. She trips over a stone and almost
falls, then regains her footing. She hurries the rest of the way with the

legs of her trousers pulled up. She is panting by the time she reaches the