They march.

The sharuq now takes up most of the east­ern hori­zon. The winds whip up a layer of sand and dust that obscures the clear blue sky. As noon approaches, the dust cloud is so thick and ubiq­ui­tous that it feels like march­ing through a yel­low fog.

The natives are blurry shades in the haze as they coa­lesce into the noon prayer cir­cle. Their chant­ing is barely audi­ble over the howl­ing wind. The sun, the God of which is the recip­i­ent of their prayers, is only a dim blotch of white above the dust.

Gil pulls his hood around his face and ties the elas­tic cords tight. His stom­ach growls—he hadn’t been offered any break­fast, and today’s march was gru­el­ing so far.

He tries to push his doubts aside. But deep down, he won­ders if going to Har­rappa is actu­ally worth all this.

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