Staring at the desert sand, Krita pulls on the strap of her water bottle. Before screwing the top off of her metal canteen, she grips the sides tightly between her fingers and shakes it from side to side, the measley sound of not-enough water sloshes within.
_If I drink now, I may run out before I have a chance to get where I’m going…_
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_But…_
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_Where… am I going?_
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The sun has been bea...