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Alone in the desert, Arielle Davies shrivels and cracks in the baking sun. Tongue thick, and working like sandpaper against her bleeding lips, she sinks to her knees in the sand--a million points of fire searing into her legs.
"God," she croaks, her voice scarcely discernable to her own ears. How much time had passed? And how much longer before she'd die?
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Water. So basic Arielle couldn't believe she took the life-sustaining liquid for granted all these years. Trying to swallow, she wondered if imagining having a drink would moisten the hollow tunnel that used to be her throat.
The swallow was like gas on a fire. She threw her head down, sand jumping from impact. Something tickled her nose. Soft. Fragrant.
Arielle gathered enough strength to lift her head and investigate.
Right next to her, in the center of the desert, was a flower.
She stared at it for a moment, not believing it was real. She reached for it, her hand trembling with fear that it would simply fade away into nothingness. Her fingers swept across the soft petals and she would have cried with relief had she not been so completely and utterly dry. Hope sprang to life - where there was life, there had to be water...
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