Ali counted it, sighed, and pointed to a beat-up truck. “We leave now. The border is sixty kilometers. We walk the last twenty. If the soldiers see us, run. Do not look back. If you fall, I will not carry you.”
The guard’s eyes narrowed. But Betty had prepared for this. She launched into a stream of practiced Farsi: “My daughter is ill. We go to the doctor in the north. Please, God bless you, let us pass.” not without my daughter book
The child did not cry. She dressed in the dark. They crept down the stairs—twelve flights, counting each landing, holding their breath. The lobby was empty. The street was a dark river of shadows. A taxi idled at the corner, its driver a grizzled old man named Reza whom Mrs. Hakimi had vouched for. He didn’t ask questions. He just said, “Get in.” Ali counted it, sighed, and pointed to a beat-up truck
Mahtob, wise beyond her years, nodded. She had stopped calling Moody “Daddy.” She called him “that man.” We walk the last twenty
Ali cut the wire with a small clipper. He pushed Betty through first. The wire snagged her coat, tearing it. Then Mahtob. Then he slipped through himself. They tumbled down a shallow ravine. The dogs were closer now, howling.
“We have money,” Betty said, pulling out the last of her hidden stash—nearly all of Mrs. Hakimi’s savings, plus what she had managed to pilfer from Moody’s wallet over the months.