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the only drought-hardened plant her mother had grown in the garden. And it wasn’t the only one that still grew wild.
    There was the bitter aloe. And thatches of sweet onion hiding in pockets of shade, and sour figs sprawled wild out on the sandy flats. Maybe she could even grow a mangosteen tree to shade the tilled earth.
    As Sarel walked, tufted clouds stretched across the sky, soft and cool as a cotton bed sheet. When they arrived at the homestead, she jogged straight to the garden.
    Kneeling down, she brushed away the top layer of fire-blackened earth and raked the soil with her fingers, combing it into neat rows. She pried open the husks and scattered seeds into the shallow channels. She scooped handfuls of dirt to cover them and pressed the ground flat again, the imprints of her fingertips crisscrossing like bird tracks over the buried seeds.
    The sun dipped below the horizon as Sarel finished her work. She knew her garden needed water—as a child she had walked often to the river with her mother, hand in hand, and watched as she raised the sluice gate, watched water fill the narrow channel and flood into the planted furrows. But that was before the river went dry.
    Sarel’s hand closed on empty air. No matter how badly she wanted to see her mother’s garden blooming again, she wouldn’t use a drop of their drinking water for this. There was no way to know how much longer the old well that fed the grotto pool would have water left to give.
    She squinted through the failing light along the half-buried channel to where the sluice gate hung, holding back nothing but air. Sarel knew it wasn’t enough, burying a handful of seeds and wishing for rain. But she didn’t know what else to do.
    She lay down and pressed her cheek into the charred soil.

17
Musa
    It wasn’t until the fourth day that he felt it—a low hum, like a cloud of buzzing gnats, pulsing through the ground to the west and rising through the soles of his feet to settle at the base of his skull. A hum so slight, it could have been just a headache.
    Musa stopped and listened. His body turned toward the sound like a needle on a compass.
    Fresh water.
    Faint, far away.
    But it was there.

18
Sarel
    Sarel woke to the wet pattering of drops against her cheek. The air was charged with a musky, moist smell. She lay still for a moment, her mind blinking into focus. Nandi was up, her nose pressed through a gap in the chainlink fencing, a high-pitched whine rising from her throat.
    Sarel jumped up, a word forming on her lips.
    Rain.
    She dashed to the gate, lifted the bolt, and sprinted outside. Above, tearing winds whipped dark clouds across the sky. The dogs burst into the yard, lunging and swatting at each other, rolling in the wet dust, lifting their snouts to the air and barking at the rain as it fell.
    Sarel ran back inside and dragged the trough to the front of the kennel, where a steady line of water dripped from the edge of the roof. She grabbed her buckets and placed them at the corners. Hurrying inside again, she untied the two bladders she had saved, catching them as they fell from the roof and re-tying them under channels of rainwater.
    The dogs stopped their play and sat in a tidy row around the edge of the kennel, licking the drips that coursed down the steel bars. For once, their tails thumped the dirt without lifting a cloud of dust. Sarel gripped the chainlink and pulled herself up to catch a stream of gritty, metallic raindrops in her upturned mouth.
    Mirrored in the drops of water running down the fence, a white flash split the sky behind her. Lightning.
    The chorus of insects that had risen to greet the rain fell silent.
    â€œNo,” she whispered, whipping around, her eyes scanning the desert for smoke. “No, no, no.”
    A low rumble of thunder moved through the earth and Nandi came to stand beside her. Sarel buried her hand in the fur at Nandi’s neck and gripped tight.
    Flashes of light danced