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I ask.

     Charelle smiles, “She still hates him.”

     “And she still loves you,” I say.

     Charelle sighs. I can see that she is torn between our sister and the song on the wind. It is a quiet moment between notes. We begin our journey once more after a long look back. There is no one on the horizon.

     An hour goes by before I notice the faint odor of burnt and rotting camel beneath the ever-present scent or scorching sand. My place of death and rebirth. Even in the sun and heat, I shiver. The dry husks of five quiet, covered women and the three men who feared them too much to educate them beyond subservience and shame lay in the next dune. In my other life, I would have vomited. Now, I can onl...

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