But it’s enough to sense water. I thank the Sun for the recent rain, keeping the earth full of moisture. All I have to do is extract it from the ground and form a small rain cloud.
I try not to think about the sweat lining my neck and forehead, dripping down my chest. All the water I’m losing that isn’t being replenished.
I sit back on my heels and close my eyes. My magic is a shadow of itself. In this heat, it’s inefficient at best, completely useless at worst.
But still, I focus everything I have on the moisture in the ground. I pull and pull and pull, and finally, a small rain cloud appears. My arms are shaking, and my jaw is clenched, the overwhelming heat threatening to abolish the cloud before I can make it rain. I move it over the water bottle, and as gently as possible, I drain the cloud.
It’s barely enough water for a single person, let alone four of us. But it’s something.
I look back at Angela. She’s far in the distance, but I can see her kids under the tent, can see her sitting next to them.
The sun dips below the horizon, the last rays of sunlight illuminating the sky in oranges and pinks. Then it’s gone. Everything is so quiet.
Twilight moves over the field, and soon I’m enveloped in darkness.
I take my phone out and turn on the flashlight. The low battery warning pops up on the screen. I make my way toward Angela and her kids.
“That’s all there is?” she asks, her voice trembling, taking in the half-full water bottle.
“For now,” I say. “The temperature will go down overnight, and hopefully my body will regulate. I’ll try for more in the morning, before the sun is up.”
I look at her kids. They’re asleep, but their breathing is shallow.
“Wake them up. They need to drink,” I say, handing her the bottle. “You too.” I try to ignore her excessive sweating, the way she rubs the muscles in her calf.
Once the kids have their water and I make sure their temperatures are under control, they fall back asleep. Angela takes a small sip and hands the remainder to me.
“No,” I say. “Drink it.”
She nods, then lies down next to her children. I watch them for several seconds. Another day out here will be catastrophic for them—organ failure, brain damage, death; it’s all a risk. The reality barrels down on me like a rockslide.
My heart races as I walk farther down the rock edge, close enough to hear them if they need me. I finally lie down. My clothes are still wet from earlier, and goose bumps form all over my body.
My stomach rolls with hunger, and my mouth is dry.
Tomorrow is a fresh start. If I can just sleep, I can regain some strength and try again. The night air is still hot, still clammy, but without the sun shining, there’s a respite from the intense heat.
I shift on the grass and curl into myself. Stars shine overhead, and a crescent moon hangs in the night sky. It’s clear enough to see the Milky Way.
It’s peaceful here, and I think how much I’d love it if I weren’t so scared. So angry. So weak.
I think Sang would love it too.
The thought pops into my mind unbidden, and I try to force it back out.
I wrap my arms around my chest and roll onto my side. Eventually, my breathing slows, and my eyelids fall closed.
It is very still and very dark.
Chapter Eighteen
“Discovery is a gift: discovering ourselves, and discovering others.”
—A Season for Everything
I dream that I’m not alone. Sang is with me. He sleeps beside me with his arm draped over my side, and I am not scared.
I am content beneath the sparkling starlight.
When I wake, I slowly sit up. My skin is sticky with sweat. My head is throbbing, and I push my fingers against my temples, trying to rub the pain away.
It’s still dark out.
I’m covered in dirt, and several pieces of grass are stuck in my curly hair.
I stand up and brace myself for the inevitable dizziness. Nausea roils my stomach. I take a steadying breath, but it’s no use.
I drop to the earth and dry heave. With my stomach already empty, it doesn’t last long. I push my hands into the dirt and spit. When I’m sure it’s over, I slowly stand.
The spinning isn’t as bad this time, and I manage to stay upright until it stops completely. My heart thumps rapidly.
Even in the dark, it’s so hot.
But sleeping was good for me. Magic pulses beneath my skin, stronger than yesterday. It’s nowhere near its usual strength—most of my energy is still going toward keeping my body cool—but it’s there.
And it might be enough.
Dawn begins to stretch across the field. I rush to where Angela and her kids are sleeping, and when I’m sure they’re stable, I grab the empty water bottle. Once I get far enough away so as not to disturb them, I build small rain clouds over and over until I’ve filled the bottle to the top.
Rays of sunlight appear from the east, painting the field in golden streaks. But everything is quiet. Animals are asleep, burrowed underground. Most of the birds have migrated south, and the world is still in a way only winter can orchestrate.
I walk back to Angela. She’s awake now, watching her kids sleep. Their little chests rise rapidly, and sweat lines their faces. But that’s good. Once the body loses the ability to cool itself, sweat can no longer form, and heat exhaustion turns into heatstroke.
I hand Angela the bottle of water, and she takes a small sip.
“Mommy, my head hurts,” her little girl says, starting to cry.
“I know, baby, I know,” Angela says, giving her some water. “This will make you feel better.”
We have to get them out of here.
I look at the sunbar in the distance, the way the light glitters and moves across the field. I won’t
