Nia stood beside the clay water jar at the middle of Saffron Dune Market, rubbing one small brass cup dry with the corner of her teal scarf. The jar was cooler than the air around it, and tiny drops of water shone on its sides like beads. Around her, the market was waking up busy and warm. Fabric fluttered in the striped awnings. Someone called about melon slices. Someone else counted dates into neat little piles.
Nia liked this hour best, when everyone had a job and the day felt steady. She was trying to keep it that way. She lined up cups, straightened a woven mat, and made sure the water jar’s lid sat on tight. If the morning stayed smooth, people would smile more. They would have enough. They would feel glad she was there.
Then Omar came hurrying in from the archway at the edge of the market. His striped sleeves were dusty, and his basket was half-empty. "Nia," he said, too fast, "the caravan is late. Very late. Maybe late enough to be lost."
Before she could answer, Zahir bent under the awning beside them, brass shavings on his cuffs flashing in the light. He stared toward the open dune and tapped one finger against the jar. "If the caravan is missing," he said, "then the water, dates, and fabric we were waiting for are missing too."
That made the morning feel different. The sellers nearby had already begun tugging at the same small supplies, asking for cups of water and extra dates and another strip of cloth. Omar looked toward the archway again. Zahir looked toward the stalls. And Nia saw that everyone was waiting to find out who would do what next.
She could stay by the stalls and help stretch what little was left. Or she could go with Omar and Zahir to look for the missing caravan, leaving the market short-handed.
What happens next?
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