The landscape changed as they moved across the desert. Parched soil gave way to cracked clay, and swaths of grassland dwindled to sparse clumps of low-lying shrubs. The wind scoured the ground as they walked, whipping grit into their eyes. If he hadn’t felt the water, buzzing at the base of his skull, Musa would have given up, would have lain down in the shade of the kennel while his body failed, grateful at least to die without chains. But he could feel it. Right underneath his feet and stretching wide, all around them. So much water, it made his throat ache with hope. It was just nowhere he could get to it. On the third day, in the middle of a sea of rippled sand, they drained the last of the bladders. Sarel tucked it away in the bottom of her satchel and handed Musa an aloe spear. He sucked at the gel, his throat gagging at the bitter taste. A rumbling in the distance made Musa stop and whip his head around. For one terrible moment, it sounded just like the dust-clogged engine of Sivo’s jeep.
