Several hundred dust devils, like fingers, were tracing their way across the drought-dead soil. I tried to chase them, but I could never catch them. Then I saw human shapes in those dust devils, formed out of bone-dry soil and air, dancing playfully.
"Who are you people?"
They ignored me.
"What are you people?" I whispered to myself this time.
I was thirsty. Dust was sticking to my sweat. I must have been delusional. I followed. God hep me, I followed. For good or ill, I followed.
