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I have heard it's the highest peak in the country: a small village called Sīdī Muḩammad al Ḩumrī.
Named after a local saint, those open roads circle the eponymous shrine with its stashed gifts and scent of Bakhura,
with doors open twenty four seven.
One day we came a'running into the shrine to hunt; Hassan and I, the oldest son of my oldest aunt.
He knew where most visitors hid the gifted money.
Descending full-handed, we mounted a pair of donkeys we'd trapped a few days before; our ride to civilization.
My donkey's limp worsened and Hassan's balked.
He would smack the ailing beast, behind my back, with a broken broomstick - he would whip once and twice, having the third interrupted.
I kept my share of the treasure and let Hassan ride alone.
I sat through the afternoon with that broken skeleton, feeling his skin grow warmer, softer.