Half a globe away from the hallowed ground of the Arlington National Cemetery in Virginia, soldier ashes below the berm peace-piped into heaven—the eternal flame had gone out. Jinny and her pint-sized companions warmed before the smoldering shrine for ten minutes while she considered gathering stones and laying out three crosses at the memorial remains. “No time. We must get to high ground.” She bade her eyes track a puff of smoke upward and whispered, “I hear you, Mama. Higher ground. Safe harbor.” Jinny stood at attention and presented a painful salute–until she felt two tugs.
After a nod and a beckon, she led the boys from the blackened grave back to the dry creek bed where she stripped three branches from a blackened, denuded willow tree. The three survivors swept the area of footprints, back-peddled from the smoldering Humvee, and climbed up onto a large rock. “Well Curly, that tragic day in the loft seems pretty trivial just now,” she murmured.
With the M-24 strapped over her shoulder and the rucksack on her back, Jinny led the way up a hillside, looking back as often as she looked ahead. On less wobbly legs, Asad and Asif played follow-the-leader until they approached a wide, exposed escarpment of tile-sized slate. Even wild Argali sheep avoided such hazards. “Boys, we must either expose ourselves to enemy eyes and cross or backtrack and find another way.” Jinny’s looked ahead; her confidence got swept into a riptide of despair; she had no water to tread. Asad looked up, tugged at her hand, grabbed his brother’s hand, nodded determinedly, and double-crossed Jinny’s fears.
Ah, but a man’s reach should exceed his grasp, or what’s a heaven for?” [Robert Browning]
Bending at her knees, Jinny startled the boys by slumping down and drawing them beneath her arms—as a hen gathers her chicks—and plead. “Heavenly Father, I believe in miracles. Clear my mind of despair. We need help! Blind the eyes of our enemies. Deliver us across this hazard. I’ve got a war to get back to. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.” Jinny shifted the rifle-sling further back on her shoulder, remained kneeling, and persuaded Asif to climb aboard her rucksack. “Hang on, partner. In Kansas, this is called a piggy-back ride.” Grasping Asad’s hand and without further hesitation, she took one measured step at a time; they plodded across the forty-yard-wide hazard, conspicuously visible from the valley below. “Nice and easy does it . . . at last! Thank you, Lord.”
Reveling in their success, Asif dropped to the ground and the brothers high-fived then hugged one another. The trio found seclusion and rested while each sucked water through the plastic tube and chewed on a brown chunk of bullion-flavored ration the texture of chalk. Jinny pondered: Should we continue to climb, or angle to the north, drop back to the road, and follow it west toward Jalalabad . . . or turn east through the Khyber Pass and walk into Pakistan? Or, should we hole up for the night and hope for rescue in the morning?
Asad and Asif studied the soldier’s solemn features, wondering what she was thinking. In polished Pashto, Asad whispered to his brother. “I think she’s lost. If she’s lost we’re lost.”
Asif responded with a nonchalant expression and shrugged his shoulders as if he’d given up caring. He turned, looked back at the smoldering tires, and whispered, “While she was asleep, the Taliban could have slipped in and cut her throat. She was lucky.”
“To this woman, I think there is no such thing as luck, little brother.”
Jinny disclosed what she was thinking by angling northeast up the incline, content with her present duty and feeling neither alone nor forgotten. She took care not to kick loose rocks simply to witness their fall down the steep mountainside; each labored step yielded a better view of Taliban territory below. The bicuspid-like snow-capped peaks still loomed above as if waiting to swallow Rabbit and her young bucks whole, and the Old Grand Trunk Road, paling in the distance, looked as straight as a furrowed row of Hard Red Winter Wheat, scribed east to west across the valley. Kabul and Jalalabad were too far distant to be espied, even though the lenses of a high-powered scope.
Jinny held up a fist, crouched, and checked her watch. “It’s 18:50.” Asad and Asif stopped, turned, and tracked her gaze back to the smoldering Hummer. Three hearts skipped a beat. “I heard yelling.” She studied the grey valley below for signs of life, placed a finger to her lips. One, then four, then eight more men climbed to the road, crossed and stared down at the memorial cemetery. A dog, its bark barely audible, struggled against its leash and became easier to see when it broke free and lit out on a dead run up the road toward the Pass. “There goes their dinner,” Jinny quipped, having knelt and pulled down her night vision goggles. One of the distant figures whistled and shouted, but the dog ignored him. The whistler raised his rifle and fired, hitting and somersaulting the canine onto its back in the middle of the road. It stopped barking.
Give me liberty or give me death.
“Nobody moves,” Jinny whispered as two bearded clansmen glassed the mountainside with binoculars, looking to see movement, any movement. Glass. Turn. Glass. Turn. Jinny secured her night-vision-goggles above her eyes and whispered, “Taliban. Heavily armed and drunk.” What she could not see, stamped on their high-powered binoculars, was “US ARMY”.
In one smooth motion Jinny unshouldered her rifle and stood it upright on the ground. Asad raised, straightened, and pointed his index finger down range. He pulled back his thumb, fired, and imitated the recoil. He looked up at Jinny and without smiling blew imaginary smoke from his index finger. Striking an invisible Taliban clansman from 400 meters would have been spectacular. Annie Oakley shook her head and whispered, “We’d give away our position; no target practice tonight, Asad.” He shrugged as if he didn’t care, turned and slowly traced the outline of Jinny’s sheathed K-Bar with his finger; then he drew in close and studied the holstered Glock 9mm semi-automatic.
Evening skies cleared and cumulative cumuli floated east into Pakistan.
Under lent light, Asad was first to spot a small, weather-carved cove above and forward of their position—its walls still warm—against which they could put their backs for the night. They climbed cautiously up to the rocky overhang. The boys sat. Jinny unslung her pack, let it drop to the ground and, breathing heavily, looked up as one by one, scintillating clustered stars and clearly distinguishable constellations pinged into view and assumed their reserved seats in the heavens—a luminous array of diamond tinker-toys, invisibly yet recognizably linked together.
Beat up but bright-eyed, Jinny readily absorbed and reflected light. “Behold the handiwork of God,” she said, gesturing not toward herself, not toward the heavens, but toward the children. How they regarded her—this beautiful, resilient, athletic, American patriot—she did not know. That they were hungry, tired, and deserved sanctuary, she understood. Jinny set her mind and heart on shepherding the boys to a safe haven so she could work her way back to her unit. She leaned the banged-up M-24 against the overhang and smiled .
“At suppertime, Papa used to bunch up his face, hunch forward, lower his voice, and growl good-naturedly, ‘I’m all give out and hungry as a bar cub.’ Then he’d stick out his tongue, lick his lips, and grin.” Jinny’s expressive recitation raised Asad’s eyebrows, but Asif yawned and scratched his head, apparently bewildered by the woman. His interest was in her dropped rucksack. He watched Jinny unsnap and zip it open. After cleaning her scratched cheek and each of six hands, she laid out a simple supper of energy bars, a few A and B rations, and everyone sucked a last swallow or two of tepid water. And then, by a simple pantomime—easily understood by Asad and Asif—Jinny explained, “Tomorrow we must find fresh water, hike down to the road, and make our way through the Pass into Pakistan.” She retrieved a map and flashlight from her Kevlar vest, unfolded the map, pinned it to the ground with pebbles, and traced the road with the slivered light. “Peshawar. We will seek refuge in Peshawar. Tonight, we are safe, but we must sleep.”
What Jinny left unspoken was sobering. We have passed the point of no return; from here on there’s no turning back; not to the Jalalabad road; not to Kabul. God willing, we will be rescued by a search party or retrieved by a passing convoy. But . . . when they see the skeleton of our Humvee, we might be presumed dead. Jinny shuddered; the rock was warm; Asad was restless; Asif started to cry.
After some coaxing the boys joined hands with their benefactor. She spoke softly in her native tongue, praying silently that her companions would understand. “Cheer up you two. We have witnessed many miracles today.” Before she could reach up to hide them, tears escaped from her chocolate brown eye, ran down her cheeks, and tickled her lips. Wide eyed, the boys saw the tears through the moonlight, relaxed, and Asif stopped crying. After a soulful pause, Jinny continued, “Asad, Asif, look up. The power of God is everywhere.” All raised their eyes, jaws dropped, and together they tried to comprehend the Milky Way. The children tightened their grip on Jinny’s scorched hands.
Remembering her Mama’s first letter, Jinny retrieved a small, waterproof, metal box from an interior vest pocket where she had kept Gemma’s letter, the pages torn from Caleb’s journal, and a black and white photograph of the lined face of a pleasant-looking woman sitting in an old wicker rocker. Jinny lay the photo on the ledge, put her back to the valley and shined her flash on her great-grandmother Llewellyn. Asad leaned forward for a closer look, smiled and said, “Ahh,” just to please the soldier.
“Meet my lonely “Great-grand-mama Llewellyn.” The boys chose not to chew on the surname. “Long ago my maternal great-grandfather sailed with the merchant marines, leaving his pregnant wife and two toddlers alone for many months. While wiling away the days and nights above the sea, Grand-mama rocked like a skiff anchored near the lea and composed a lullaby. My mother wrote the lyrics on the back of this photo, giving Grand- mama’s face more lines than she deserved.”
Jinny sang softly as she caressed each sleepy boy’s tousled hair.
La-la-lea, la-la-lea, Papa’s gone to sea.
La-la lea, la-la-lea, I will comfort thee.
La-la-lo, la-la-lo, yes, we miss him so.
La-la-lo, la-la-lo, more than he may know.
La-la-lie, la-la-lie, baby please don’t cry.
La-la-lie, la-la-lie, soon your tears will dry.
La-la-lay, la-la-lay, every night we pray.
La-la-lay, la-la-lay, he’ll come home some day.
He’ll come home some day.
Soon Asad and Asif—their head’s in Jinny’s lap—were asleep. And yes, she had noticed that the color of their dark hair matched hers, almost to perfection. She covered their sandaled toes with a towel, closed her eyes, hummed the lullaby again, and then spoke softly. “Heavenly Father, thank you for preserving our lives. Bless those who have lost loved-ones today, and like George Washington at Valley Forge, we need a helping hand. Help me care for these little boys, Asad an Asif, whom you have entrusted to my care. Father, they may be orphans, innocent victims of a hellish war, but for now, they are mine, and we are yours forever.”
At least one broadband frequency remained open in the darkness above the Grand Trunk Road.“They shall not hunger nor thirst, neither shall the heat of the sun smite them; for he that hath mercy on them shall lead them, even by the springs of water shall he guide them. I will make all my mountains a way, and my highways shall be exalted.” (Isaiah 49: 10-11.)
Asleep and wrapped in a surreal blanket interwoven of threads past and present, Jinny looked down on the screened back porch of her Kansas home. Grand-mama sat in a wicker chair near a kerosene lantern turned low, rocking infant Jinny slowly back and forth in her arms on a summer evening. Floorboards creaked, soothed frayed nerves, and tended time. The panoramic view of grain—waving freely on the plain—and the musicality of her own pure soprano voice lullabying above the silence, consoled the old woman as she covered Jinny’s toes, bid the sun good night, and watched it lie down at the far horizon of everything good.
The crispy air smelled of pine. A watchful raven winged casually down and cawed a warning; and then, despite frantic flapping, he got sucked into an updraft and left unchecked a twisted towel dangling over the campsite. A sunbeam teased Jinny’s curled lashes into a flutter. Her eyes popped open. Then wide open. She shrank back, stared up the bridge of her nose at the towel, and fumbled for the Glock with her right hand. Drawing the gun in one smooth motion she lined up the front sight and pulled the trigger.
The puffy blue krait lost both its appetite and its head. Still twisting, it dropped at Jinny’s feet. Now what have I done? She rubbed her eyes and imagined Lieutenant Staley’s response. “I’ll tell you what you’ve done, Sergeant, you’ve killed a snake and awakened every bogie gunning for us within two miles. So now you’re going to tell me another little voice ordered you to fire, right?” Jinny took a deep breath and holstered her weapon. Then suddenly realizing she was alone, she sat up and smacked her head on the overhang. Stars and constellations? At this time of morning?
“ASAD. ASIF. Where are you?”
A tramp-tramp-tramp alerted Jinny that she’d been heard, but by whom? Somebody was coming fast. She turned and watched four muddy feet, their owners out of breath, dash into camp and glance at the headless reptile. Asif punted the fleeting distraction from the ledge. “Rasha, rasha.” Grabbing Jinny’s hands and jabbering in Pashto, the boys tugged her to her feet and without letting go, towed her up the hill.
“Hold on, hold on. Where are we go-o-o-o-ing?” The upward exertion ended as abruptly as it had begun. Asif laced his fingers across his head and swayed back and forth full of anticipation.
Asad pointed and beamed, “Ta-da.”
Jinny gulped. A noble noun pressed from between her parched lips. “WATER.” A shaded depression the diameter of a backyard wading pool overflowed its banks as it generously bubbled clear, cold water from the earth. “Way to go, guys,” Jinny grinned while massaging her new lump. “Staley’s not going to believe it . . . if indeed we live to tell about it.”
Before she knew it, Jinny’s hands had again been captured by the jubilant explorers who then skipped her around in a circle, dancing as if they’d just received an unexpected furlough. “Wo-wo-wo, stop.” Jinny let the joy slip from between her fingers and dropped to one knee. “Did you see this?” A cloud cumbered her countenance as with a stick she traced the outline of a large sandal-print pressed into dirt. The boys’ faces sobered. Celebration over. “Tally ho. The hounds are coming; let’s not get treed. Let’s exfil.”
Stiff and sore, Jinny climbed down from one pancaked rock to another and led her companions back to camp where she packed up her rucksack, grabbed her helmet, and shouldered the banged-up rifle. Without a prompt, Asad and Asif pulled up some scruffy brush by the roots and—like plumed peacocks dragging their tails behind them—swept tracks away as the threesome methodically worked their way back to the spring.
Again Jinny went to one knee and groaned. “Watch me, guys.” she said, pointing at her own eyes. She crutched the rifle upright on the ground with her left hand and, instead of bending over like a dog and lapping from the spring, she remained vigilant as she caught up a handful of water with her other hand and drew it to her lips. “Your turn, Gideon,” she beckoned. Puzzled, the boys mirrored her manner but omitted the groan. Jinny nodded approval, quickly filled the Camelbak bladder, and then splashed water on her face. The cut on her cheek felt puffy and warm to the touch. “I wonder if Gideon defeated the Midianites without getting a scratch,” she chortled as lightheartedly as appropriate, considering their circumstances. “No matter. He survived, and he knew why; and so do I.”
They left the track undisturbed and, determined not to be overtaken by the Taliban, climbed into the rocks hoping to find a trail. Jinny could easily have outdistanced Asad and Asif, even with her battered body, but she paced herself like a mountain ewe. Her lambs trailed closely behind, jumping gingerly from rock to rock. They bounced over cracks and crevices like children playing hopscotch without a taw, until finally they achieved a small plateau—a lookout shaped like a giant arrowhead, nicked at its edges. No sandal tracks here.
Jinny unslung her carbine, dropped to the prone position, inched her way forward to the point of the arrow, and drew the rifle scope to her dominant eye. Angling the barrel down, she studied the winding, ascending stretches of road, hidden hither and yon by the rugged topography, and called over her shoulder,“Boys, do you see the switchbacks? They remind me of the dreary black and white aerial photo I saw months ago in a power-point presentation.” Jinny turned over, sat up, laid her rifle across her lap, and shivered. “So far so good, no Taliban.”
Still standing, Asad lapped one arm across his tummy and supported his opposing elbow so he could prop up his chin with his other hand and nibble on his thumbnail without smiling. Asif sat cross-legged, put his elbows on his knees and his hands under his chin. He blew puffs of air from above his protruding lower lip, rearranged the hair gracing his forehead, and stared at Jinny’s gouged cheek.
“Let’s unwind for a few minutes.” The boys didn’t move. Jinny rolled her shoulders fore and aft, worked her head from side to side, and tried to relax and forget her headache. “I wish we could speak to one another in full sentences. I want to know all about you, where you came from, and how you got separated from your people.” I hope you’re not Taliban. Asad and Asif glanced at one another. “You won’t talk, but I need to.” Jinny checked the road below, then continued:
“Looking at those switchbacks puts me in mind of a stuffy classroom—stuffier than an old barn—longer and dryer than the state of Kansas, and more boring than a powder-post beetle. It was part of a series sponsored by the CSI. Nod your heads if you understand.” No movement, not even a blink. Jinny’s head throbbed. “Interrupt and ask questions at any time; no need to raise your hands,” she quipped. “For example, you might ask, ‘Jinny, what is CSI?’”
“Good question, Asad. It stands for Combat Studies Institute.” Asad started to say something but changed his mind. “The lecture I’m remembering—at best a sugared sedative—was delivered by a ruddy-faced Englishman who called himself Sir Paddy Pigg, with two g’s. He captured a monocle with his left eye and his nose bent down at the tip like this.” With a forefinger, Jinny audibly cocked her nose, winked, and continued. “His nasal tone resembled what you’d expect from someone who’d had his schnozola broken during a brawl, possibly in the House of Commons; but then, he did call himself ‘Sir,’ as I already mentioned. He sounded something like this.” Jinny clicked her tongue, uncocked her nose, and then, with thumb and finger pinched her nostrils.
“‘Put it in a sock, Laddie.’ I took that to mean, ‘shut up and listen up.’ Then he lost me. ‘You Yanks are a cheeky bunch of Lizards and Lumpy Jumpers.’” Jinny smiled but detected no reaction in the boys’ faces. She sighed, pointed at the road, and continued her improv. “’Here you see a cracking aerial view of the battle-scarred Khyber Pass and the country road that links Afghanistan and Pakistan.’” Jinny unplugged long enough to confess, “Look guys, I usually don’t make a fool of myself or others on purpose, but just now I’m in want of a little comic relief; so please, loosen up.” No riposte.
Jinny’s nimble calisthenics startled the boys. She jacked to her feet, wagged her stiff neck, threw out her arms and grinned from ear to ear. “Ta-da!” Two faces full of teeth smiled approvingly. As she gazed at the handsome little boys, Jinny’s countenance sparkled and sobered at the same time, reminiscent of a Kindergarten teacher who once upon a time had greeted a dark haired, timid, O’Dwyer lass on her first day at McKinley Elementary a thousand years ago. Jinny squeezed her nose again and continued the parody.
“’You Yanks look a bit knackered today. I am absolutely gobsmacked by you. If I were put in command, I’d call you what you are–tossers, not keepers. Now, now, don’t get your knickers in a twist. Come to order.’” The boys’ foreheads wrinkled. Jinny pressed on. “’Some of these photos I’ve brought from over the pond are smashing. For a minute I’m going to be talking nineteen to the dozen so get your pencils pruned.’” Seeing audience attention wane, Jinny doubled the pace of her monologue.
“’Dwarfed by tilting hills and dipping dales the Khyber road rises to 3500 feet above sea level then zig-zags down into Pakistan’s ruthless northern frontier. But of course, I already said that. Let’s see . . . where was I? Oh yes, you gobby Yanks might better respond to a simpled-up metaphor, sometimes useful, but then again, sometimes not.’’
Jinny pantomimed reaching into a paper bag and pulling out a 100-foot-long garden hose. “‘This hosepipe is 30.5 meters long. Think of the Khyber road as a hosepipe, kinked here and there as it twillies for 53 kilometers from Landi Kotal, through the Spin Ghar Mountains and finally dribbles angst onto the road above the ancient town of Peshawar. To span that distance would require 1739 hoses, each 30.5 meters long, al . . ..’” Asif stood up and brushed himself off. “But I’m not done.” The boys shook their heads, sat, and gave Jinny their undivided attention.
“Well, the Englishman folded his notes, shoved them into a vest pocket and— we hoped—was about to dismiss the class. Wrong. He said, ‘I’ve been told on good authority that I bear a striking resemblance to the movie mogul, Alfred Hitchcock.’’’
Jinny paused. “Well, I had never heard the name either, and by now even a court martial looked better than enduring more from this English dote. He cleared the screen then stepped sideways in front of the projector lamp so as to create a large silhouette of his face, chest, bank of medals, and pot belly.
“With his fingers laced across his portly shelf, the professor drearily imitated Hitchcock by carefully enunciating a jingle which even he appeared not to think funny.” Better make this quick, sister, you’re about to be gaffed.
If you should passage on a bus, please do stay calm, don’t make a fuss;
And do not ask to stop for tea or expect crumpets—they’re not free.
Remain composed, enjoy the ride, and listen carefully to your guide;
If she bolts don’t try to stop her; remain demure and very proper.
Peshawar lies on down the road. The Bates Motel is near, I’m told.
The boys were more than ready to move on. Jinny led the way, hoping to find a trail blazed by animals, not humans. Visibility was good, maybe too good. The sun closed in on the earth and gobbled up most of the shade but failed to warm up the three pilgrims. They ranged a few hundred yards and looked for a place to hole up until the cold wind stopped breathing. Clouds swirled like ocean breakers across the sky.
“This is no place for a helo rescue. Let’s keep moving.”
They paused to watch a small tail-lasher lizard scoot on a rock and try to pretend he wasn’t there. Jinny asked, “Asif, what did you think of the dead viper back at camp? Were you scared?”
“Maar.”
“Asif, what does Maar mean?” He wiggled his wrist and finger then rubbed his tummy, apparently not interested in perfecting his skill at charades. Jinny looked up slope, spied a couple of box seats in the cleft of a rock, and bade the boys to climb and squat. “Time for lunch,” she said as she reached into a pouch and retrieved an MRE for each. Although nutritious, the meal tasted like unsalted, partially cooked potatoes. A little water helped the food slip into hungry stomachs. Jinny swallowed hard, blew between her cupped hands, and rubbed out the cold.
She drew her Glock and, without looking down, pressed a button above the trigger guard. The magazine released and dropped into her hand. She thumbed in another cartridge, reinserted the magazine through the base of the grip, and chambered the round. “You need cleaning, my friend,” she said as she returned the gun to her holster. Later. Jinny’s wound needed cleaning. Now. It hurt. Asad and Asif watched attentively while she dressed the laceration on her cheek as best she could; but the boys couldn’t observe her ineffectual attempt to rub out the bloody memory of her slain master sergeant, and her friend, Huck. Sensing the boys’ concern for her discomfort, she smiled and twittered, “Staff Sergeant Broshinsky hated snakes. He was so scared of them he carried a color-laminated photo-fold-out of local vipers so he could recognize the bad ones. He claimed he’d picked up the card at the Kabul Chamber of Commerce, but we knew better.” Asad abruptly drew in his chin, lifted his shoulders, and leaned forward pointing.
“Snakes? Do you see a snake, Asad?”
He stood, stabbed his finger toward Pakistan three times, and then jabbered something that only Asif understood. Jinny stretched so she could see what had caught Asad’s attention. “A trail. Good for you Asad.” She offered a high five, then showed him how to reciprocate. He grinned. “Let’s see where it leads. Just give me a minute to pack up my stuff.” While Jinny pouched her first aid supplies, Asad stepped down and strutted forward, apparently happy to take the lead for a change.
Three pair of eyes saucered as they rounded a bend in the trail. Asad stepped back; Asif gulped; Jinny went to a knee and clenched a fist. “If I’m to be beset by vertigo, it’s going to be now. This is unbelievable.” She stared ahead. In years gone by, one of northern Afghanistan’s mega-earthquakes had severed and collapsed thousands of tons of earth from a rounded ridge and plunged it several hundred yards toward the Pass below. Inexplicably, it had banked and stopped above the Khyber Road, leaving immediately in front of Jinny and the boys a bizarre, narrow path, two or three feet wide by seventy-five feet long. The tenuous footbridge vaguely resembled the spine of a tumbled loose-leaf flipped upside down, its tented sides—minus the rings—steeply angled down on both sides. A misstep to the left—unthinkable. The unbroken slope to the right, tangled with brush and trees, all but obscured their view of a deep crevasse far below.
Jinny brooded quietly, hoping not to lay an egg. Dear Lord, this can’t be ‘the straight and narrow way to heaven.” Where should we go from here?
A closer examination of the narrow ridge revealed the splayed hoof-prints of mountain sheep. Jinny used a hand signal. “I think we should turn back and find another way. Nod if you understand and agree what I’m saying.”
Asad and Asif exchanged glances then looked askance at their soldier. Have you lost your nerve, lady? Asad shook his head. “No, no.” He pointed at the narrow ridge and in Pashto continued as spokesman for his brother. “Have faith in your God. He helped us before.”
Jinny apprehended their resolve. “Asad, Asif, I’m responsible for your safety . . . but, well, we can do this. We will cross.”
Asad gesticulated with his arms. You cross three times. Asif and I each cross once.
“I hope the crosses don’t stand above our graves.” Jinny’s lips stopped quivering. She stroked each boy’s arm. “I will walk Asif across first, then return for you, Asad. “Asif, take hold of my hand. We will inch across sideways if we must. Do NOT look down. Don’t worry, I’ve never been afraid of heights,” she chortled. “It’s falling from them that that I’d terrifies me.” She mumbled a prayer. With no rope and but a modicum of hope, each held fast to his will to survive and approached the narrow divide. “Stay put, Asad. I’ll be right back.”