The wind blew lazily across the barren landscape. The orange and brown earth rolled as gently as the dunes they made up. The ground looked as if the sun had melted the top layer of the earth and then carved wax-like curves and waves across the entire expanse of sand. The sun was barely above the horizon and already the desert floor was sizzling with heat, impatiently awaiting the rain that would not come for several weeks. A single trail made its way across the field. Modest footprints, those of a man with gentle steps, were visible only a few minutes before the sands began to shift and mask any trace of passage. If one were quick enough to follow the path, it would seem that whoever makes this small intrusion into the sand is heading towards the heart of the desert; towards almost certain death. Death caused by heat or exhaustion, whichever comes first. This would seem to be the case, although it would not be the case, because the author of this trail had walked this path many times before. So many times in fact, that he doesn't need to stop to check landmarks or rest until dark to find his landmark. He knew where he was going and that was all he needed. It came to rest at the top of a particularly high dune at midday. Stripping down his bag and packet, he reached into his back pocket for a meal that had been prepared for him by the kind young woman at the inn three nights earlier. Three nights, he thought. Has it already been that long? This meant that his journey was almost over. When he was sufficiently full, he packed up what was left of the meal and placed it back in his belt pouch. He stood up, stretching his old body and remembered what it was like when he was younger to be able to stand up quickly without needing to prepare his... middle of paper ... to become a prune. both looked at each other and started laughing. The man took out a cup and walked towards the water. The water was cool, surprisingly unaffected by the heat of the sun. He slowly drank a few cups before taking one. a few steps back, and leaning against the base of the tree. “It’s good to see you again, Casore.” "And you too, Django," exclaimed the dragon. "But as you know, I can only let you rest." you pay the toll for trespassing on my land. Django smiled and took off his shoes. He wasn't going anywhere for a while and the cool sand under the tree felt nice between his toes. "Very good. If I have to, I must," he said with mock sorrow. "Have I ever told you the story of the Boy and his Turtle?" The dragon thought for a moment. "I don't believe it." , he said. “Good, because it’s one of my favorite stories..