She hoisted up and through the opening. She levered herself over the back seat and sidled through the front seats to avoid the gearshift. It sapped all of her wits, but she found it, a mobile phone in a plastic well under the radio. She stared at it a few seconds before locating the keypad, as if she’d only just then encountered a cell phone. She should take off her glove. She pulled on the fingers and placed it on the dashboard, making a mental note of exactly where she put it. She was about to dial 911 when it hit her. She was in-country. There was no 911. The importance of reaching someone came whamming into her, the memories of her mother with it. It numbed her into confusion. She felt the raised touch-tone buttons. It was like reading Braille, because her eyes were closed, shut tight, and she moved her finger down—two, five, eight, zero. She pressed. The ringing gave way to a voice that kept breaking up, then a British accent came on the line, then another voice, also breaking up. The aggravation of misunderstanding helped wake her some. She told the fourth person on the line, “We had an accident; we’re on the road heading north from Bagram, right at the arrow to the valley; tell the pilots. They’ll know it.” The words helped her. She sat upright, opened the passenger door and got out.

She started tracing squares in the snow to inspect systematically. In seconds, she found Jeff’s Beretta, checked the safety, and secured it with an ankle holster she found in the Land Cruiser. There were some Turbo-Flares and good rope too. She set up the flares so the choppers would see them. Rope was strong, extra long. She tied a figure eight around the ball hitch, looped the rest over her left shoulder, snaked it around her waist and between her legs. She took an end in each hand and eased to the cliff’s edge. She pushed off deliberately but gently, staying close to the cliff, pausing often as she descended.

When she reached them, there was nothing to fasten the rope to, so she tied it to her good ankle to stop it from flying in a gust and knocking her silly.

Frank’s eyes were open. Her dead mother’s had been that way when Mary found her.

Mary folded over. Her face landed in snow. She forced herself up to half kneeling, then pulled forward. She grabbed on to his hand to get beside him, tight against him, her right arm over his chest, her right leg over his thighs, her pelvis straining against his flank. She cradled his head in her right hand, rocking. Her forehead was on his right cheek.