She wanted to see the film through, understand all those images, and wondered if she could be in charge, become the narrator. So she whispered into the fog, “We’re trotting along in a single file at a steady brisk pace, but it’s so hot it’s hard to breathe. Soon all of us are panting, pausing often to drink. I feel sweat running down my back, sticky and hot, feel my body protesting the steady climb over the endless jagged rocks and scattered boulders, loose underfoot, ready to twist or break an ankle. I try to avoid thick ugly brambles with their sharp thorns to rake to the bone, raise my hand to warn the others to be careful. At least if anyone’s looking for us, it will be hard to pick us out from our surroundings, we blend so well. I wonder how it can still be so hot when it should be dark in an hour.

“I hear a noise. It’s my sat phone beeping and I raise my hand. Everyone stops, and I see them bending over, breathing deep, drinking water like camels. The static is fierce, but I hear our station chief saying Hashem, the man we’re here to take out with us, is on the run, Iranian soldiers in pursuit. I wonder how they could know he was here, be on him so fast, but I know if he can only get to us, we might still get him back to Sumar and to the Iraqi border under the cover of night.”

The film stalled, she felt her head swimming, but she needed to go on.

“I must find a high rock to see exactly how close Hashem is to us, how close the soldiers are to him. I know they want to kill him, and so does he. I hear the whomp whomp of helicopters in the distance. My heart jumps. They could kill us all in a second if they see us. At least there’s only one track through the Zagros Mountains large enough for vehicles of any kind, and Hashem is well north of it.

“I climb up a jagged mess of boulders, slip into a narrow crevice, and raise my binoculars. All I see is bleak and hostile land, full of impossible cliffs and narrow passages and plunging drops into rock-strewn gullies. I see Hashem. He’s dressed like a herdsman, his robe flapping as he runs, highlighted by the setting sun behind me. I don’t think he’ll make it.