By Morgan Rivers

For as long as she could remember, the desert had been her backyard. Ever since her mother had accepted the job, moving the family here, it was a part of her home. The time before—she had been too young to know or care what home had been. If you asked, she would have offered a blank stare, unknowing, uncaring. 

Existence was this city, this nation, this dry wasteland that teemed with the arid wash of desert heat, that rained sand instead of water, that smelled like sweat and cotton. It was home, and she neither knew nor wanted anything else. 

The day the desert killed her family started like any other day. She’d woken up with the sunlight streaming in her small bedroom, her mother cooking eggs and making sandwiches. They would visit a nomad market—one that only came through once every five years, according to the locals. It was a quick ride, they were promised. About two hours south, nothing the camels couldn’t handle. But her dad wanted to drive, said it was a good opportunity for the dune buggy to show its worth, and so after breakfast, they’d strapped everything in the small vehicle—extra gas, extra water, picnic lunch. 

Her little brother was annoying as always, and she’d lost track of time after the tenth time he leapt giggling out of the buggy onto a sand dune. Dad had yelled good-naturedly, hauling him back into the seat with the same frustrating indulgence that he had the previous nine times. Her mom smiled, but there was a warning in her eyes before she turned back around. 

She couldn’t remember when they knew they were in trouble. The sky turned yellow, spots of grey swirling before them, and suddenly her parents were speaking in hushed tones. The radio didn’t have a signal; the phones didn’t work. Her father reversed, did a U-turn, but suddenly the world was moving beneath them, the desert heaving and twisting as if it were an earthquake instead of a storm. Her mother screamed, her brother cried, her father cursed and she was silent, stoic even, hanging on to the metal frame of the buggy as it tilted and turned and eventually threw her out. She screwed her eyes shut, tightened her lips against the sandstorm’s assault, curled into a ball, and waited for the thunderous crush of wind to retreat. 

It felt like it never would. 

Then, blissfully, silence. Abrasive grains were everywhere. Standing, she shook her whole body, brushing and jumping, pushing herself to stand atop the small hill that sloped down from her position. 

As far as she could see—nothing but sand. No dune buggy. No mother, father, no little brother. No debris, no life. No sign of the storm that had erased her family from the planet. Only sand, rolling, smooth, dusting slightly where the dunes were capped, like beige mountains lining the desert horizon. 

Panic was delayed as shock settled solidly into her bones. She turned, trying to get her bearings. The sun looked a little lower than it could rise. So…was that east? Was it already setting? Was it west? Did it matter? Memories of camping trips, survival tips, things no one ever really needed to know struggled to surface. Finally, she started to scream. Could anyone hear her? 

By the time the sun had passed overhead, her voice was gone and the question was answered. No one could hear her. She was alone. Completely alone, like few humans could ever comprehend. 

She sat, uncertain, alternating between terrified and accepting. 

She was going to die. 

The simple hat she’d worn to shade her eyes was gone. Solar radiation burned, its fire on exposed skin like a cruel affirmation of survival. She was wearing long sleeves and light pants. But her neck, her hands, her feet in their light sandals, her nose, her cheeks, they were mercilessly stung by the unwavering celestial glow of the unrelenting god above her. 

She was going to die. 

She sat there until the sun sank into the sand. Now she knew which way was west. She needed to go north. Northwest would be acceptable, but north as far as she could figure, was her best bet to survive. It would be hard, but she had all night. She could do this. Refusing to think about her family, refusing to think about the thirst that was clawing a hole in her stomach. She found her feet and set off into the darkness. At first, she tried to find patterns in the night sky, but the stars gave her vertigo, not direction. Each time she looked up, she lost her balance and tumbled backwards into the sand. After a few attempts, she abandoned that plan. 

She walked. Tried not to think about the last time she drank. Tried not to think about garden hoses or faucets or even toilets. Definitely avoided rivers, oceans, ponds, or even mud puddles. When the sun started to rise, she saw with horror that it was at her back, not at her right. She quickly changed direction, but with no idea how long she’d been walking due west. She decided the sooner she could pass out and die the better. Anything except this hopelessness, this despair, and this unceasing, pitiless thirst that consumed her, made her feel like her skin was paper. The air burned with each breath. 

The sun ascended, a cruel demonstration of its domination over her, and she sat facing north, refusing to move, defying the star’s steady movement with her own static position. When it began to sink to her left, she stood once more, feeling as if the cartilage in her body needed to be oiled, all joints protesting in a creaky chorus. Her tongue was thick in her throat, her eyes coated in something dark and musty. One foot, then the other. She continued. North. North was the ocean, north was the town, north was water and … not home. Nothing was home anymore. 

When the sun rose the next morning, she was afraid that this was home now. This desert, this featureless ocean of silicon. Maybe she should give up, stay here, surrender. Delirium threatened, receded. She could do this. She would do this. They hadn’t driven long, had they? Her brother had jumped out, slowing their progress. Ten times…less than two hours. The nomads were two hours from the city. How long did it take to walk the distance a dune buggy could cover in two hours? She didn’t know, cursing in her head. She knew she couldn’t make a sound. Her voice hadn’t worked since that first day. 

And how many days had it been? She wasn’t sure. She sat. She waited. Probably best to wait, she decided. Walking was not helping. She cushioned her head on her arms, ignoring the sand swirling over her. If it buried her, she’d become part of the wasteland. Like her family. Like the sandwiches they’d brought. Like the water bottle that had been sitting at her feet when they’d overturned. 

She slept. 

When she awoke, the wind was whipping, the chill of the desert biting into her clothes, trying to destroy her burned and parched skin with its teeth. Could she scream? Yes, she still could. She thought she’d forgotten how. 

The sound didn’t echo. It was swallowed by the sand. Death was inevitable, and that cry had held the last remnant of her will to live. When it fled her lungs, the only thing left was despair, resignation, and a strange brand of relief. 

The sand whorled, eddies scratching her face. If she had any fluid left in her body, she would have cried, but that was no longer possible. She gasped, a sucking breath, feeling the grains enter her windpipe, lodging there, staking a gritty, inevitable claim to her body. Soon you will be ours. That’s what she heard. 

Take me now, was her mental reply. 

Abruptly, the dune shifted, shook, and coalesced. Sand that had swirled aimlessly took form. She must be hallucinating. Colorless grains seemed to stick together, an invisible force gluing them from within. Before her reddened and dusty eyes, a figure appeared. First the legs, like one long column, dividing into two as a gust sliced the sand apart. Then narrow hips, a lean torso, sculpted by air, twisting and writhing into existence. Arms sprung from the desert floor, attaching themselves to imagined sockets, and finally, a head, the suggestion of hair, sandy, wind-swept, locks that erupted from the earth flowing like tendrils of mist around the creature’s head. 

Was this Death, come to deliver her? Was it an elemental, like in some fantasy game of wizards and dragons? She was only certain it wasn’t real, the rest was up for debate. 

She blinked, waiting, resigned. The figure turned, its whole being shifting in a languid, graceful motion as the wind smoothed and polished him. And yes, now she was certain it was a him. Where there should be eyes, there were smooth, eggshell-shaped ovals, but they turned and looked at her, and she felt no fear. 

Sand seemed to leap from the dune to thicken his grainy skin, hiding the gaps, turning him into something solid and purposeful. Again she met his sightless stare, and this time, he nodded, inclining his head as if in greeting or courtesy. This hallucination was polite, she thought, and got to her feet. If she was going to follow an illusion to her doom in the desert, she would do so with good manners. 

She returned the nod, unable to manage the curtsy that she wished to offer. She’d always been fond of curtsies, but she knew her legs would collapse from the effort. Nice to meet you, Sand Man, she thought, unable to form the words with her cracked lips and useless tongue. 

He made no sign of understanding, but beckoned with a wave of his arm, a strange undulating movement that indicated direction. She couldn’t move, and shook her head slightly. She couldn’t walk anymore. The dunes were too high, the sand was too hot, and the sun was too cruel. Death was preferable. 

The movement was repeated, and then the Sand Man moved closer to her, gliding with a hushed swish to her side. His amorphous limb reached out to her, where the hand should be only an orb. The orb touched her, surrounding her hand, her fingers. It was warm and welcoming, the grit somehow softening as it coated her skin. His heat brought strength, and suddenly she could follow. She took one step, the Sand Man’s globe-hand submerging her own further as she closed the distance between them, and then he moved, and the globe hand tugged gently, leading. Somehow she matched his pace, following the figure down the dune. 

As they reached the bottom, the desert erupted in waves, rolling back like a tide from their feet. The hills and slopes retreated, their barren uniformity rushing from the Sand Man’s gliding movements as he led her through the center of the chaos. The heat was dissipating, the wind subsiding, as they glided silently to the heart of the desert. 

She didn’t know how she had the strength to follow, but it didn’t occur to her to question any aspect of this strange journey. She had died, it was clear, and he was taking her to Heaven or Hell or something in between, and whatever it was, she welcomed it. The touch of him, this connection of warmth, grainy and yet soft against her, was full of compassion. He wouldn’t hurt her willingly, she believed, even if their destination was not a pleasant one. She wouldn’t blame him, no matter where she wound up.

It was like a dream, only full of life’s painful reminders. Maybe she wasn’t dead— she still thirsted, still craved rest, still felt pain from the sunburn and the windburn and blisters on her feet. She had hoped for Death, but perhaps that hope was premature. Despair threatened again, and she closed her eyes, moving blindly in the Sand Man’s wake. 

After only a few moments of this, they stopped, and the warmth surrounding her fingers fell away. She opened her eyes. Yes. Dead. She must be. Before her was an oasis, like the kind you’d see in a picture book illustration. A perfect, kidney-shaped pool of crystalline blue, bordered by slate-grey rocks and palm trees. Other, stranger flora skirted its edges, with low-hanging, iridescently brilliant fruit that looked bursting with ripeness. This was Heaven, or what someone who died in a desert would imagine heaven to be. She would have run, if her body could run, but instead, she fell to her knees, unable to drag herself to the water. The irony, to falter and fail, to lose consciousness so close to her salvation. 

The Sand Man paused and contemplated his dying guest. Finally, his body scattered, sliding beneath her thighs and back, and then he was reformed, upright, and gliding her towards deliverance. 

She awoke in the pool, the delicious chill of water against her flesh. Wet had never felt so keenly before. Wet… liquid and promising and beautiful. Slowly, she lowered her chin, lapping like an animal, wondering where all the sand had gone from her skin. There was no sign of grit or pollution in this pool, just the water itself—pure, clear, and potable. She drank more, then sank beneath, wondering if she was being given the choice between drowning or dehydration as a means of death. If so, this was her preference—the wet, the welcoming, wonderful sensation of buoyancy and life as her hungry skin soaked up fluids, her throat grasped at liquid molecules, and her eyes rolled with delight at the discovered ecstasy of water.

Hours, maybe days passed as she sat in the waist-high oasis. She didn’t know. Once she had stopped vomiting up the water, she could drink more freely. And once she could drink more freely, she found the strength to eat. The fruits, the leaves of the trees even, they were delicious. But if this was Heaven, where were the other denizens? 

Throughout, the Sand Man stayed watchful, at hand, and she smiled at him, hoping he sensed her gratitude. 

In time, she got her strength back. She hadn’t realized, but he came to her, gliding up to the rocks, and she could sense his contentment, his certainty. Unhesitatingly, she held out her hand, reaching for him. That shapeless orb extended, then absorbed her fingers once more, and they set off, away from the oasis. She trusted him. He had saved her, and now she would walk where he glided. Nothing more, nothing less. 

When the sun blazed, he sheltered her, gusts of sand canopying their trajectory across the dunes. At night, his limbs flattened, reshaped into a blanket, dense and heavy against her skin. She was never cold in the desert with him. She was never alone—he kept to her side, his softness, his particle form her security and strength. 

There were other oases. They never went more than two days without one—he saw to it. She would bathe, swim, splash, drink and feast. He would attend, waiting, watchful, and approving. She knew he loved her. She loved him too. 

Once, a sandstorm menaced their path. She sat at the shoulder of a slope, and he wrapped her inside himself, the shield of his desert-birthed body pulsing and protecting. The wind was muted by his power, and she felt the tidal force of his sanctuary like a heartbeat, vibrant and rich, promising her safety and a future. With him.

She started to think they were alone in paradise, and the thought was not alarming. When he was with her, his sand molded to her skin, flowing like unrefined silk through her fingers. Her joy was mirrored in the waves of his form. 

I love you she told him. 

His answer didn’t come, but she felt it regardless, and answered for him. 

You love me. 

They were happy together. 

Another full moon came and went, and she was awoken from her morning nap by an insistent, angry buzzing. Blinking, she sat up, her Sand Man rolling away from the lines of her body. 

An aircraft. She sank into the desert, clutching at her companion, trying to find a way to be absorbed into his form, to hide. But it was too late. She’d been spotted. By the time the helicopter landed, she’d run out of tears to cry. He’d left her. He was gone. 

A new kind of misery set into her bones when she was returned to the city. Tears, celebrations, funerals. The media, the parties, and finally, an attempt to return to normalcy. She was sent to live with her great aunt, an old woman she’d only met a few times. Her aunt was kind, but dismissive of her stories, her pleas to be heard. No one cared about the Sand Man. No one wanted to give her true rescuer credit. The teenagers at school treated her at first like a celebrity, then like an oddity, and finally like a lunatic. The guidance counselor mandated a pediatric psychologist, and he didn’t believe her either. 

She refused to abandon her narrative, refused to change it to fit society’s beliefs. He had saved her, befriended her, loved her. He was everything to her and they’d ripped her away from him. The psychologist was kind, but firm. She’s a survivor, he told her, she

deserved all the credit for her own salvation. There was no Sand Man, he promised, in a voice so certain it threatened her own conviction. There was only a strong, willful, brave girl who overcame every obstacle to find her way home. 

Home is the desert, her heart wanted to scream. Home is with him. 

She felt more alone now than when she was orphaned in the desert. 

She felt less sane than when she was dying of thirst. 

She felt no joy, no comfort, no peace in his absence. 

During one session, she told the doctor about how he saved her, how he set her free. With a kindly shake of his head and pain in his eyes, the psychologist assured her of a faulty memory, promised her that trauma begets blackouts and tragedy births fantasy. He’s not real, he assured her gently. He never was. It was you. You are the hero. You are the survivor. 

Her heart broke a little as she tried to believe in the doctor’s version of her ordeal. Is she losing her Sand Man? And if she loses him, does she lose herself, too? If it was only her, then he is a part of her. She is him. They are one. She finds no solace in sanity. She would rather seek madness and be together with the Sand Man. 

Years passed. She remained alone. A misfit. A child of misfortune with a heart that never stops breaking. She wanders at night to the edge of the desert as if she could fall into it, looking for an endless and welcoming abyss. She waits for him there, for him to greet her, beckon, take her home. 

He doesn’t come. 

She graduated high school, started at university. Everything is listless. She has no friends. One night, sleeping with the window open, she hears him in the sough of a distant storm. Lightning crackles through the night sky, screaming for her. She feels the tormented rage boiling in his granular core, pulsing where his heart should be. She’s been so foolish. He cannot come for her. She must go to him. 

She flies out the door of the apartment complex into the dusty evening. The electricity of the tempest guides her, and she cries with joy as she races into the freezing landscape of rolling desert. 

I’m coming back to you. 

When the storm has retreated, her conviction remains. She walks, east this time, at night. No water, no food, only love in her heart and the belief that he will find her. They have been alone too long. She is so sorry, so full of regret for leaving him. 

The dunes rise before her, challenging, mocking her affection. One of these holds the desiccated bodies of her family, she knows. Perhaps this one, or perhaps the one just ahead. She spits, precious moisture leaving her lips as she curses the heartlessness of infinity. It has no power over her now. She will not forgive nor forget, but neither will she be forgotten. 

Three midnights pass, and again her tongue lies useless between her teeth, her lips crack from the sun. She sucks the blood from her own lips, unwilling to lose a drop of fluid to the scorched wastes. Her skin is red and raw, her heart is full but weakened by the trial of her search. Soon the nightmare will end. Soon he will come for her. He knows she is here, he is hers and she is his. His home is her home. 

On the fourth day, she can go no further, sinking to her knees and then lying on her side in the harsh, unforgiving desert. She is not a victim, she tells herself, she is a part of this place as much as the silicon mountains surrounding her. She belongs here. 

That night, doubt slithers into her soul. Was he a dream? Was it really her all along? Could she have survived all those months alone? Did survival make her insane or bring fever dreams? Death is close now, she can feel it standing at her elbow like a watchful nursemaid, ready to usher her beyond. Perhaps Death has claimed her dearest friend, and once she succumbs, she will find the Sand Man in Heaven with her. The thought comforts, and she sleeps, hoping to wake up blanketed in his warmth or in eternity. 

As she dreams, sand swirls around her body, sliding between and around her fingers. Heavy grains fuse together and caress her hand, the shadow of a form fighting for rebirth and reunion.

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Morgan Rivers is the author of Death Coach, an adult novel available at all major retailers, and is also known as evilmouse on AO3. You can follow her on tumblr at https://www.tumblr.com/blog/deathcoach.