It was sopping with cool water. The oversized yellow hibiscus blooms had turned two shades darker, and the cotton was starting to shred from being dragged repeatedly across the jagged stones. It was the fourth time he’d dunked and retrieved his shirt, and he was starting to get the hang of it. Careful not to exert too much pressure, he coiled the shirt into a rope, held it by the ends, lifted it, tipped his head back, opened his mouth and wrung the water out. He swallowed the dribble, maybe a quarter of a cup, twisted the cloth harder, then harder still for the last drops. The water tasted metallic. Maybe fertilizer run-off or pesticide or some dissolved minerals that had leached into the groundwater. It didn’t matter. Better to ingest a few carcinogens than die of thirst before sundown. Problem was, the process took too long, wedging his shirt into the crevice, soaking up water, and wringing it into his mouth. He’d be working all night before he could rehydrate himself. He was still parched, still felt the drill bit of his headache boring into his frontal lobe, but he had to stop.
