Ada tried to swallow, but the viscous liquid failed to lubricate the surface of her coarse throat, it took several struggle to draw a little quantity from the drying pool of saliva. She broke away from the main road, into a narrow sandy path, where she turned to the right and was saluted by the site of a dead palm tree—standing by the grace of an orange tree supporting it—just as the description of the village boy had directed. She sauntered down the alleyway, whose floor was neat despite the orange tree lining both end. It was midafternoon now and soon the sun would start dropping its radiance.
“Erima”
“Erima!!”
Ada froze in her wake and turned. She sheltered her face from the dust of the whir wind, which whistled as it swerved pass and disappeared into a thin air. A haggard face man
