Nia stood on a flat stone by the market gate, holding her teal scarf with one hand so the wind would not tug her off balance. Around her, Saffron Dune Market hummed and rustled: striped awnings snapped softly, sandals scuffed the sand, and the smell of mint and cumin drifted past the stalls. She was trying to help sort the last wagons into the right selling lanes, just as she had been asked. If she did it well, the traders could unload quickly and no one would have to push or shout.
Then the gate grew crowded all at once.
A rival caravan had arrived late, their wagons bumping into the wrong lanes under the sandstone wall. One wagon stopped nose-first beside the brass cup sellers. Another rolled too far toward the rope coils. A third blocked the shaded nook where cloth hung in indigo sheets. Traders blinked at one another. Handlers reached for the reins. Someone said, “That wagon is mine,” and someone else said, “No, it came with ours.”
Nia looked from one blocked lane to the next. The wagons were in the way, the stalls were stuck, and the goods were already in the wrong hands. She could see the trouble stretching through the narrow gate like a knot in a rope. Omar was calling questions too fast, and Laila was watching from her doorway with her arms folded tight.
Nia took one careful breath. If she stepped in, she might help guide the caravan into place. If she did it wrong, she might make the knot tighter. She lifted her chin and looked from Omar to Laila to the wagons, ready to choose.
What happens next?
Sign in to rate
