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I hold the power button down. Still nothing.

I press it again.Harder.

The screen stays black, while the metal warms in my palm.

“Please. Just work.”

But it doesn’t. I let it fall from my hand to the sand.

I’m shaking. My clothes are already soaked with sweat. My stomach churns, nausea rising, while panic squeezes my lungs tight.

“Get it together!” I force the words out. “I’m not going to die here.”

Standing up, I sway, my legs unsteady, and vision swimming. My lips are already cracking from the heat, and when I lick them, I tasteblood.

What am I supposed to do?

I don’t understand how I got here, but I need to move. I need to calm down. I need to find shade. Water. Help.

But which way do I go?

I turn in a slow circle, one hand covering my eyes, while I look around. Every direction looks the same. There are no roads, and no movement. Just golden sand, stretching as far as the eye can see.

It doesn’t matter. You have to move. You can’t stay here.

I choose the direction where the sun is at my back. East, maybe. Or west. Who knows if this place follows the same rules as Earth. I just know I can’t stay still. If I do, I will die here.

Each step swallows my feet, making forward progress harder than it should be. The dunes look easy like gentle hills from a distance, but when I get close, they're much steeper, and it’s like climbing a mountain made of molasses. My boots are full of sand, making every step sluggish and heavy.

The sun climbs higher as I walk. Sweat trickles down my spine, between my breasts, along my temples. It vanishes as fast as it forms, sucked away by the heat like the desert is drinking it. My sweater clings wet, then dry, then wet again.

I want to take it off, but if I do I’ll burn. Better to stay covered.

Everything rubs. Everything stings.

“Help!” I shout every few steps, hoping that someone is out there. “Anyone? Please ...”

But my words vanish into the dunes, swallowed whole by the vast emptiness of the desert. I don’t see any birds. There are no insects buzzing. There’s not even a breeze. Just silence. But I keep going.

Left foot. Right foot. Repeat.

Until thought narrows to just that—step, sand, burn, breath.

Time slips away. All I have left is thirst and exhaustion. My lips split when I try to wet them. The blood tastes metallic, almost sour. It’s the only moisture left inside me.

I try to convince myself that I’m dreaming or hallucinating. Or maybe I’m having a mental breakdown. But none of those things would include this much pain.

Or this much silence.

Or the way my skin feels like it’s peeling off my face.

This defies reality. Itcan’tbe happening.

The throbbing in my skull, the burn of my face, and the sand grinding inside my boots tells me otherwise. They’re all far too real to deny.

I crest another dune, dragging my body up the slope with legs that barely respond. My thighs seize on the final push, and I collapse to my knees at the top, gasping for air.

I want to rip my boots off and throw them away. Sand has found every crevice—heel, arch,betweenmy toes—and every step feels like walking on sandpaper. But if I take them off and leave them behind, I’ll burn. Even through socks, this heat could blister skin.