Stayin' Alive

Beneath my hands, the sand is burning hot. Glass grains, sharp and jagged, dig into my skin, embedding themselves into my red raw palms. The burning sun is draped across my back, my shadow is a shroud.

I'd lick my lips, but my mouth is bone dry and my tongue a rasp across cracked and sensitive tissue.

And yet I keep digging in the sand. Searching desperately for the water I know is beneath me. It's here. It has to be. There are trees here. Yes, they're dead, but that just means the water is farther down.

Must keep digging.