I lost track of the days when they stopped giving me more than a bowl of water a day. In the desert, that means death. When I was finally conscious for more than a few minutes, we were stopped in the tiny city of Evrash. In shifting sands, nothing is truly permanent, but the oasis cities are as close as they come. I was shackled with girls from other camps, other tribes, all of whom were barely alive.

We continued, given more food and water, on a much more traveled route through our expansive desert. For a week we moved past only sand, our faces shielded from the hot wind by heavy burlap sacks. They wanted our faces intact, it seems, for wherever they were taking us.

After that week of hard travel, we came to the high desert, dotted with scrub brushes and small communities. All of them were stationary, pens of goats next to tiny mudbrick houses. We did not stop that week either. After we’d gotten through the high desert, we reached the plains, and continued walking during the day, sleeping at night.