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spines as the dogs trotted forward, sliding under her hands.
    The wind kicked up the top layer of dirt as they walked on to the homestead, and the smell of smoke and char hung in the air. The dogs fanned out as they entered the yard. Bheka and Icibi flopped into side-sprawled naps while the pups wrestled and yipped in the space between them.
    Sarel went straight to the grotto. She cut the three spears into squares and pushed Ubali’s head out of the way. She pressed the gel against the bullet wound and waited while Ubali relaxed under her hand. He could have thrown her off, but instead, he tucked his head around her leg and began to wash the dirt from her ankles.
    Settling to the ground beside Ubali, Sarel looked around the small room. The very stones seemed heavy with sorrow, ringing with the echoes of her screams.
    It was time to move out of the grotto. Time to sweep the ash from the kennel floor and stretch out under the stars. She could weave a mat to sleep on and let the warm bodies of her dogs tuck in all around her. It would be safer, anyway, with a latched door between them and the animals that prowled at night. And if the men came back, there would be nothing to lead them to the water, to the arc of stones at the far end of the yard that marked the grotto entrance.
    When Sarel made her way aboveground again, the dogs were feeding on the bloody remains of a gazelle. Bheka and Icibi, the proud hunters, lay off to the side, licking their jowls and smoothing the fur on their forelegs.
    Sarel eyed the animal. When the pack had all finished, if the hide was in good shape, she would cut it away and dry it like her father had done after a hunt. She would dig out the bladder, careful not to tear the thin membrane, and hang it to dry. And then she would drag the bones away and let the vultures do their work.
    Nandi sat primly, waiting for Sarel. Her tail thumped up a cloud of dust, a meaty foreleg dangling from her jaws. Sarel’s stomach rumbled and she reached out, taking the food she was offered.
    She didn’t know how to start a fire to cook it, and the thought of a single lick of flame made her want to retch the few sips of water and grainy tubers she’d eaten that day.
    If the dogs didn’t need cooked meat, then neither did she.
    Sarel hung the meat on a wire to drain the blood and sliced away the hide with her knife.

15
Musa
    Musa walked that day as long as he could, walked while the sun rose over his shoulder. Walked while it set, lighting the ground in front of him like a glowing, crimson path.
    On the second day, his pace slowed to a limping shuffle. His muscles knotted with cramps while the sun beat the sweat out of him, swelling the air with suffocating heat. But he placed one foot in front of the other, as he had done all day and the day before that.
    It became a game, of sorts—to see how long he could ignore the itch between his shoulder blades, how many steps he could take before he had to turn around to be sure the Tandie weren’t coming after him.
    His shoes fell apart, and he had to shred what canvas was left before wrapping it around the rubber soles and tying them onto his blistered feet. If only he had an extra pair. Or a hat to keep the sun off his head. Or even a blanket to cut the bite of the desert air after the sun set.
    They had been ready, once. Ready for the hard journey north, away from the city, away from the gangs and the dead water. Umama had insisted that they wait until they each had packs full of food, canteens, sturdy walking boots, a compass, even a tent.
    Dingane had been so proud of that tent. He had worked for weeks on a well crew, the blisters on his palms bubbling and breaking. When he came home with the tent strapped to his back, Umama had tucked it carefully into one of the packs, calling him her big strong boy and kissing him on both cheeks.
    â€œSoon,” she had said, her voice pitched low so no one could overhear. “We’ll leave this place