The Desert Kid's Arc

Chapter 1 of 10

The Desert Kid pushed open the warped door of the outpost and stepped back into the white glare. He had crossed half the dunes already. The oasis was still days ahead. He carried the new waterskin against his ribs, heavy and full, and he meant to top it off at the well before walking on. The well sat behind the outpost, leaning under a cracked stone roof. The bucket swung on its chain, light as paper. He cranked it down anyway. It struck dry stone. He pulled it up. Fine sand poured from the slats. He knelt and looked into the shaft. No damp smell. No darkness at the bottom. Only more sand, drifting in slow ribbons. Three seasons, he guessed. Maybe more. The old man had known. He walked back around to the painted cart where the trader sat in the shade of his mule. Bright cloth. Brass bells. A man named Hadrian Dustwhistle, who had smiled and pointed him toward the dry well. The Desert Kid set the waterskin on the cart's edge and studied the stitching. The hide was old, but the seams were new. Patched. Refilled. Traded again and again to men like him. "The well is dry," the Desert Kid said. Hadrian did not look up. "Been dry," Hadrian said. "Three seasons." The Desert Kid lifted the waterskin and weighed it in his palm. It was all he had now. The hour of shade was already spent, and the dunes ahead did not care who had lied.