“One, listen to me. I’ve had my life. Let me do this. Please. We do have some rope. If we both get in, we can pull up the backpacks too. It’s worth a try. There’s no time to argue about it.”

The growing heat lay down upon them. Sorrel dug for the rope in her pack and left it on the ground. Her mother knelt as close to the old tank as possible. “Step on my shoulders,” she said. “Not my waist.”

“I’ll take off my boots. If I get in, throw them up.”

“Good idea.” Her mother knelt.

Sorrel looked at the back of her mother’s neck. Everyone was thin now, but Bibi was way too thin. She placed her palms on the tank to steady herself and stepped onto her mother’s back, expecting her to collapse. “Quickly,” Bibi grunted. Sorrel got her arms over the edge of the tank and kicked with her legs, her feet scrabbling for footholds. Her right foot found something sharp and she pushed against it. Then she had her waist over the edge, and she could see silt piled up on one side and a small pool of water on the other – almost as if the tank had tipped and been righted in an earthquake or landslide. A piece of an old metal slab, probably a part of the tank cover, leaned against the side. She scissored her legs over the edge and dropped into the silt. It was degrees cooler inside.

“Send up my boots and the packs,” she cried. “It’s cool in here. I can get you up!” She hauled the metal slab to the side with the silt and made a ramp of sorts.

Bibi threw up the rope and it landed in the tank. Her mother had tied a rectangular rock to the end. Sorrel pulled up both packs and her boots and untied them. “Stand where the rope comes over!” she shouted, then made her way to the top of the slab, hoping it would not slide down into the silt. When her head emerged from the tank’s shadow, she felt the rolling heat of the day approaching. “Make a sling,” she called. “Put it under both arms. Then climb.”