Liyana rocked back on her heels as she ogled the contents: a second waterskin, strips of dried meat, fire-starting flint from the desert mountains. . . . Reverently she took out the items one by one and spread them in front of her. A knife, one of her father’s best. Clothes, her own sturdiest set. Herbs for healing. Spices for cooking. A sling and snare wire to help her hunt. A length of gauze-thin cloth to wrap over her face to protect against the sun and sand. Needle and thread inside one of her mother’s embroidery pouches. Her father’s favorite travel tent, consisting of a tarp and a set of flexible poles. Liyana cried as she touched each item. Even if Bayla had rejected her, her family hadn’t. They wanted her to live.

She left the bells in place of the pack—as a thank-you, rather than the intended good-bye—and she carried the pack back to the ceremonial circle. She dumped her precious new supplies next to her makeshift shelter.

Renewed, she bustled into action. First she needed water. Taking the two waterskins, she crossed to the oasis’s well. It was protected with a thick stone that prior generations had carted there ages ago. She laid her back against it, braced her feet, and pushed. It scooted an inch. She took a deep breath and pushed again. Another inch. She shoved again. Inch by inch, the stone scraped across the top of the well until she could see inside. Panting, she swallowed, and her tongue felt like wool in her mouth. Nearly at its zenith, the sun blazed down on her. She felt for the rope that held the bucket and lowered it. The bucket scraped bottom, and she pulled it up slowly, careful not to spill any of the precious liquid. She drank, draining half the bucket, and then lowered it again. She filled the waterskin Father had given her yesterday and the new waterskin from the pack. Leaving the stone off the well so she could fetch more water later, she returned to her little camp.

Carrying rocks from nearby fire pits, she built her own cooking area beside her nest of palm leaves. She located a pile of sun-dried goat dung and carried it over to be her fuel, and she crumpled a dried palm leaf for kindling. She struck the flint and started her fire. Once she had a steady blaze, she skinned the snake, wound it around one of her poles, and laid it over her fire to cook. She buried the snake’s head.

While the snake cooked, she focused on enhancing her shelter. Keeping her same shallow hole (but checking it for snakes and scorpions), she set up Father’s tent and secured it with rocks around the outside.

By now the sun was directly overhead and felt as harsh as a fist. Liyana ducked into her tent with her snake meat and waterskins, and she ate and drank. She then stripped off her ceremonial dress, washed herself with the smallest amount of water she could spare, and dressed in more practical clothes. Carefully she folded the dress and placed it at the bottom of her pack. She felt as if she were laying bones to rest.

When her tasks were done, she lay down in her tent to wait out the heat of the day. Perhaps in the evening, when the air wouldn’t choke her, she’d climb one of the trees and pick any dates that the clan had missed. She’d also need to fetch more water, maybe hunt for more snakes or a desert rat. And then . . . she could survive today and tomorrow. Maybe a week.

And then what?

She was nearing the time of year when this oasis dried up. In three weeks, she wouldn’t be able to stay here. But it would take a miracle for one girl, alone, to cross the desert and reach the next well. . . . And assuming she did, what next? What was she surviving for?

She wasn’t supposed to live past yesterday. Ever since her dreamwalk, she had been the girl with no future. Others, like Ger and Esti, had made plans. Others looked ahead. She never had. She’d known her fate. But now . . . her future was as empty and terrifying as the desert that stretched around her in all directions.

Two hours later, Liyana heard the howls in the wind.

She slid the glass-like knife out of her sash and held it against her chest. The sand wolves sounded close. That meant a sandstorm would hit soon, and the wolves would run freely through camp. . . . Except there was no camp anymore. There was only her.

Clutching the knife, she huddled inside her tent. The tarp billowed and rolled. Usually during sandstorms, the clan huddled together in the center tents, using the outer tents as a buffer. The sheer number of people served as a deterrent to the wolves. She’d heard them often enough, but she’d never seen them. Tales said they were made of sand.

“Bayla, is this how you’ll kill me?” she asked out loud. “There are easier ways. You could send another snake. I am sorry I ate the first one.” Hearing her own voice made her feel braver. “He was delicious, though.”

As sand pelted the tent, she told herself that this wasn’t a punishment—Bayla couldn’t punish her, not from within the Dreaming. Like the snake, this storm was merely a natural occurrence. She only had to ride through it, and the wolves would be swept away with the winds.

She repeated this to herself as the world darkened, as if day had switched with night. Sand slammed against the tarp. The tent swayed sideways and then snapped sharply back upright. The poles shook, and she wondered if they’d snap. She cringed each time the wind knocked the tent back and forth. She wished she’d left rocks inside. She could have used them to brace the poles—or simply to be doing something other than listening to the howls of the wind and wolves.

The wolves were much too close.

Sand wolves hunted within sandstorms. In children’s tales, they carried away boys and girls who did not obey their parents’ warnings to hide from the storms. In adult tales, they slaughtered any goat, sheep, or horse that was not sheltered or guarded. They killed hunters who failed to outrun the storm and anyone foolish enough to be out alone.

She had to hope that they didn’t notice her tent. It was all she could do: hope and wait. The paralyzing helplessness was almost worse than the storm itself.

Sand slipped through the gaps in the seams, and it swirled inside the tent. Liyana wrapped the facecloth around her head to keep the grains from stinging her eyes. Each inhale was filled with grit. She breathed only through her nose. It didn’t help. She felt as if her lungs were coated with sand.

Outside, the howling came closer.

She saw a shadow surge past the door flap, and then she saw it again, darker than the already dark shadows that squeezed the tent. Her heart hammered in her chest. She crouched, knife in hand.

Another shadow ran past. This time the tent swayed as the shadow brushed it. She saw it pass again. It’s circling, she realized. Oh, sweet Bayla!

The sandstorm screamed. Wind hit so hard that the tent shook as if it were about to collapse. The roof bent in on her, and she braced it with a hand as she ducked. It then billowed up before bending down again. The walls shuddered, and the rocks that had pinned the edges outside rolled and crashed against one another.

Suddenly the tent wall split.

Claws of sand raked through the tarp, and a wolf jabbed his head into the tent. His face was hardened sand, and his eyes were holes. Sand sloughed off his muzzle as he tilted his head back. Liyana scrambled backward as he howled. His jaws . . . As he spread them wide, she saw his teeth were sharp rocks. He lunged toward her.

She dove to the side—too slow. Hard as stone, sand claws raked her arm. She felt pain shoot up to her shoulder, and she screamed. Twisting, he snapped his jaws at her, and she rolled backward. His teeth closed on air.

Wind whipped into the exposed tent, and sand flayed her. She saw the shape of the wolf, blurred by the swirling sand. He leaped for her again, and she struck toward his throat as she ducked beneath his jaws.