Clutched next to my chest is my barely breathing child. I have walked for days blurred into nights, spurred on by stories I pray will be true. Tales of a land of peace and plenty and a home - safe, secure, warm. I look down upon the frame of my precious pearl, skin pulled taut upon bone like the cowhide on a talking drum.

Poor child, this is never the fate I dreamed for you.

I whisper as tears streak down my dusty face. My chest expands with a deep inhalation which steels me.

I must conserve my water.

I think to myself. I look around, among my caravan of lost brethren and weak children. We walk, will walk until we have to walk no more.

Lord, have mercy on us.