At the busiest hour of Saffron Dune Market, Nia stood beside a stack of brass cups, ready to help as she always did. The cups shone gold in the sun, and nearby woven mats lay folded in neat rolls. Overhead, striped canvas awnings — yellow, rust, cream — snapped and fluttered, and the air smelled of mint, cumin, and melon.
Nia was just tying one mat tighter for a seller when the sky turned a strange dusty brown. A wind rushed in from the archway at the far end of the market. It was not the usual warm breeze. This one came low and fast, carrying sand that stung her cheeks and slipped into the seams of the stalls.
“Sandstorm!” someone called.
Shoppers reached for their baskets. Sellers grabbed at cloth covers. A melon-cart child, Omar, shouted over the noise, “Cover the fruit first!”
But the sand moved quicker than hands. A thin film of grit landed on the brass cups. It crept across the woven mats. It slid toward a stall where shiny things and soft things sat all together, waiting to be ruined.
Nia looked from one worried face to another. She could not cover everything at once. She could hear people calling for help, but the first gust had already reached the market, and now she was in the middle of it, with too many things to save and not enough time to save them all. She pressed one hand to her teal scarf and stared at the nearest stalls. Which one should she help first?
What happens next?
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