I straighten slightly and look up.
One of the older women looks up too, then says something under her breath in Tigris. The young guard turns toward the horizon and swears.
My stomach tightens. Not because I know why. Because everyone else suddenly looks more alert.
“What?” I ask.
No one answers at first.
Then Retha says sharply, “Faster.”
That is all.
Faster.
The women do not gather the baskets and run. They do not shout an alarm. They work faster.
I obey because that is what I have learned to do when I do not understand. Follow the people who do. My hands move more quickly. Blade in. Twist. Pull. Dirt under my nails. The basket grows heavier. The air grows strangely dry against my lips. I lick them once and taste grit.
That stops me for one heartbeat.
Grit.
The wind returns then in a low strange push that skims over the ground instead of moving above it. It carries more dust than before. Not enough to blind. Enough that I squint.
The women are gathering their baskets now. Retha grabs two at once and jerks her chin toward my half-filled one.
“Take it.”
I reach for it automatically. Then hesitate.
It is only half full.
The thought hits before fear does. Half full. After all this effort, after finally being trusted out here with them again, after everything inside me still raw from feeling reduced to what my body might someday carry, the idea of bringing back a half-filled basket lands like failure.
I crouch back down and drive the blade into the earth again.
Retha whirls. “Leave it.”
“There are more here.”
The words sound weak even to my own ears.
Retha’s face hardens. “Leave it.”
The young guard is already moving between us, taking baskets, scanning the horizon, swearing again in Tigris. The older woman says something urgent. Another starts toward camp at a near trot.
My pulse jumps.
Something is wrong enough now that I can finally feel it in my own body. Not because I understand the sky. Because everyone else has stopped pretending this is just an ordinary hurry.
Still, I look down at the roots still visible in the loosened soil. Good roots. Food. Useful. Proof that I was not just standing there with empty hands.
“I can get the rest,” I say.
The words come out too fast. Too defensive. Too much about things no one else here is thinking right now.
Retha stares at me as if I have lost my mind. Maybe I have.
