Page 23

"Yo, hell no!" he shouts. "Get your ass back here!"

He chases me across the sand and catches up just before we make it to the well. I can taste a change in the air—moisture, and saturated earth.

"That baby doesn't slow you down at all, does it, Jackson?" I say admiringly.

"Not much does, and you better learn that quick." He runs his hand across the rock slab laid over the top of the well. "This is insane. How is this just out here in the middle of nowhere?"

"These wells belong to the tribes of this land," I tell him, drawing on what I know about this region. "They rely on these to travel through the desert."

"Well, fuckin' thank you very much," Jackson says.

We push the slab aside and Jackson leans over the edge of the stone-lined pit, peering into its depths.

"There's water," he announces, the relief evident in his voice. "But it's too far down to reach. Is there a bucket around here?"

There is none, just four notches in the stone on each side of the trough.

"The nomads take the frame and pulley with them to prevent others from pilfering from their well. Stand back. Perhaps I can use what power I have left to lift some up."

"No, I've got this."

Before I can protest, Jackson begins untying his cloak and slipping his arms free of the garment he calls ashurrt. He pulls the garment, stained with sweat and dirt and the purple blood of the hunter insects, over his head with a grunt, and I find myself unable to look away.

His body tells a story more clearly than any words could. Bruised muscles sculpt his shoulders and arms, built from years of soldiering, and like myself, he has many scars—some narrow and precise, others jagged and angry—like a map of battles fought and survived. But what truly arrests my attention is the swell of his belly, smooth and round, stretching taut over the egg carried within. The contrast is striking—this warrior's body, honed for combat and endurance, now cradling new life. His pregnancy hasn't diminished his strength; if anything, it seems to have transformed it into something more profound. I've seen many beautiful things in my travels, but there's something uniquely captivating about this sight. The hard lines of a soldier's physique giving way to the soft, nurturing roundness of imminent parenthood. What a sacred sight.

Jackson notices my stare and immediately tenses, his eyes narrowing with suspicion and something else—uncertainty, perhaps. Self-consciousness. His hand moves instinctively to cover his belly.

"What are you looking at?" he asks.

"Nothing," I lie. "Just wondering if you need help."

"I'm fine," he mutters.

He turns away as he removes his belt, then fastens theshurrt, cloak and belt together in a long strand with the end tied to our open waterskin. He lowers it into the well, careful to submerge only the bladder. I move forward and help him pull the makeshift rope back up, the pouch now heavy with water.

"You first," I say.

Jackson tips the mouth of the bladder to his lips and takes several slow, deep gulps. Water dribbles down the side of his chin and falls onto his collarbone. Then he pours a bit on his upturned face, hands me the skin and runs his wet fingers through his hair with a deep sigh of satisfaction and relief. I give him a mischievous little smirk before dousing my face and head.

"So much for me trying not to be wasteful," he says, laughing.

"There's a lot more down there," I say. "And trust me when I say, Ineedthis."

"Fuck it, I'm not complaining." He thrusts his hand out. "Come on, give it."

Jackson copies me and turns the skin nearly upside down over his head, drenching himself.

He lets out a delighted whoop. "Hellyeah! That's what I'm talking about."

We refill both the skin and my empty wine gourd.

"Man," Jackson says. "Thank God for the guys who made this thing, and may they forgive us for helping ourselves to a little of it."

I crouch to stow the bulging waterskin into my pack as Jackson unties the makeshift rope and shakes out his tattered robe. He turns to slip the garment back over his head.

"I doubt they'll ever know we were here," I tell him as I fasten my pack shut.

"Airos..."