The Desert Kid's Arc

Chapter 2 of 10

The Desert Kid walked three hours before the heat won. The soles of his sandals curled, cracked, then peeled away from the leather. He stopped on the slope of a dune and looked at his bare feet. The sand burned through skin in seconds. He turned back toward the only roof he had seen for days — a crumbling stone inn wrapped in dry ivy, smoke leaking from its crooked chimney. Hadrian Dustwhistle sat outside under a wooden frame strung with stretched hide. A bench, a knife, a bucket of brine. He looked up as the Desert Kid hobbled into the shade. "Feet gave out," Hadrian said. It was not a question. "Sandals," the Desert Kid answered. He set the ruined straps on the bench. Hadrian glanced at the wide straw brim on the Desert Kid's head. The hat was woven tight, banded in dark leather, still clean. "Hide wraps will hold to the oasis," Hadrian said. "Cost is the hat." He said it the way he'd say the sun was up. The Desert Kid did the math in his head. Bare feet meant no walking. No hat meant faster heat, faster judgment loss — the exact thing he'd come here believing killed the others. He lifted the hat off and set it on the bench beside the broken sandals. Hadrian cut the camel hide in long strips and wrapped each foot tight, knotting at the ankle. The hide was still damp. It cooled the burns. The Desert Kid stood. His feet held. The sun struck the top of his head with nothing between. He stepped out from under the frame and started walking again, slower now, counting each minute he had left before the heat reached his thinking.