Night had fallen all at once, like a lead curtain dropping over the desert plain. The air still shimmered with the heat stored in the ground, but a sharp chill had begun gnawing at the edges of the darkness.
Around the fire Marisse had lit — a small pile of dry branches crackling softly — the group moved in a quiet choreography. Jonas, his face etched by the dancing shadows, was indeed pulling a blackened, dented pot from a patched-up chest at the back of the cart.
That's when Maggie pounced. Her movement was so sudden, so feline, that Jonas flinched, nearly dropping the heavy pot. She planted herself in front of him, eyes usually hard as stone now transformed into two lakes of near-frightening intensity. Her question cut through the air: "Isn't that a pot you've got there?"
