Nick Perilli

On their way through Arlit, people sank into the sand. They sought Algeria.

Davies Tuch sat on a boulder—like a lizard—outside the city born from uranium mines. Davies appeared more vigorous, then. His hair gleamed blonde and his features were cut—almost chiseled around the cheek areas. Even with that vigor, he withered out there on his rock. A clogged rifle stuck in the ground beside him, reaching up out of the sand. A man’s shadow cast over Davies.

“Frenchman,” it said. Davies didn’t open his eyes. The man said it again.