We were pulling 20 miles a day along a new Korean-built highway across the desert because the donkeys were bogging in the sand. The sands were terrible but the highway verge was worse. The naked concrete radiated heat like a forge, and the roar of trucks blasted us like sonic buckshot. There was a misery of road kill—dead birds, dead foxes, dead donkeys. We put one foot in front of the other and said nothing. I retreated into the dank cave of my mind so that the road became a void.
In this way, like dazed mendicants, we staggered past the Milestone.
“Do you want to walk back?” Aziz asked.
I didn’t want to walk back. It was nine miles. I hitched a ride.