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The walls were dirt, maybe fifteen feet high, close enough at the bottom to touch both sides at the same time. I was in mud up to my knees. I leaned against the side and rubbed my arm: somebody had taken blood before dumping me down here. I could hear women and kids in the distance: there was a small village nearby. I waited for someone to come torture me or shoot me or laugh.
I waited twelve hours.
By then, I was sitting, mud up to my chest, shivering a bit as the sun went down. The adrenaline had worn off, and it was finally starting to sink in how bad this was.
Suddenly, a rope ladder splashed down next to me. Somebody said something in Farsi. I got the hint.
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