By Patsy Collins

He staggered forward, through shifting sand. Reaching the building he’d seen from the last ridge, he barely had strength to knock on the weathered boards. His dry lips couldn’t form the word.

“Water?” a voice asked. He nodded.

“Still, or sparkling? Would you like ice and a twist of lemon?”

A mirage. Just a mirage.

5 thoughts on “Water

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