Betty wrote the name on a scrap of paper: Ali. She hid it in the hem of Mahtob’s coat.
Betty and Mahtob stumbled into the village as the first call to prayer echoed over the mountains. A old Kurdish woman found them huddled against a wall, half-frozen. She didn’t speak English or Farsi, but she understood. She pulled them into her home, wrapped them in wool blankets, and fed them hot tea and bread. not without my daughter book
“We made it, sweetheart,” Betty whispered, tears streaming down her face. “Not without my daughter. Never without my daughter.” Betty wrote the name on a scrap of paper: Ali
Betty laughed, a nervous, hollow sound. “Don’t be ridiculous, Moody. The flight is tomorrow.” A old Kurdish woman found them huddled against
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.
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.”