Scratching his beard, riddled with sand, the old man picked up his bags and headed north. He had been treading through the dunes of the desert for several hours. His canteen was getting emptier, the sun was getting hotter, his skin was getting redder. His safari hat didn't stand a chance against the heat, though what little protection it offered was very much welcome, and the shade it provided helped him examine his compass.

From the map he had studied, he knew traveling north would be his best bet, as it would lead him to the Siwa Lake where he would most likely find people who could aid him. He was a determined man, and this small ray of hope was enough for him to keep going. However, his boots grew heavier with each step, his shirt burned his chest and his sweat seemed like it was boiling his arms.

Dune after dune he kept climbing, sometimes wishing they would be tall enough to cast a shadow, yet the sun attacked him from every direction. He saw countless mirages during his journey, though he ignored every one of them- he had but one goal: go north. The wind pushed him towards his destination, but it started getting stronger, signaling a sandstorm.

He opened the bag he used to carry several tools, and dropped all of them. The weight wasn't going to help. At the bottom of it was a large folded piece of cloth, which he tied to his hat around his head and back, and held with both arms.

The storm hit him. Fortunately it was a small one, and though it severely hampered his ability to trod through the dunes, it reduced his visibility in every direction. He covered his eyes and kept walking, frequently checking the compass before his eyelashes got covered in sand. He lost balance for a moment, feeling his boot sink into the ground with a splash. Peeking through the dust cloud in front of him he noticed a tall shadow- it was a tree.

The storm faded quickly, and he had found an oasis. The old man looked down to see a small pond and recited a thankful prayer. After shaking the cloth and dusting off every part of his body, he sat back against the tree and refilled his canteen with the dirty water through a paper filter. His thirst would be quenched for the small price of whatever illness he'd have to take care of later. He saw some rags buried in the sand.

He didn't stay there for long. It was a reprieve, but only reaching the lake would grant him safety. He kept walking and walking until his sight was clouded again- there was another sandstorm. He fought through it, and yet again he spotted the shadow of a tree. At first he thought he might've walked backwards, but the scenery was different. There were a couple more trees around, one small pond for each. At the edge of these ponds he saw more buried rags and some pieces of rusted metal objects.

He kept walking. The wind returned, this time without sand. This time the wind was cold. This time the wind was wet. He looked up and saw a gray cloud that wasn't there before. The old man stopped and extended his arms to the sides, welcoming the raindrops that fell onto him. Every drop was a blessing, no matter how hard it stung when it hit his skin.

His eyes were closed, and the rain felt harder and harder. He dropped his canteen. His hat fell off his head. The cloth he was carrying got buried in the sand. His boots took root in the ground, and his body provided shade to the pond that formed in front of him.