Out of all the lessons Corbin's grandfather taught him, the one he didn't quite understand was how dangerous the world could be for a Water Witcher during a time of thirst. But soon, he would.

In the meadow, sat four engraved headstones nestled between wildflowers as Corbin stood over his grandfather's grave with hands clasped in front of him. It was his daily ritual of paying respects, but above him, a scatter of birds disrupted the peace while taking flight from a tree branch. Silver clouds expanded the sky with an earthy scent clinging to the humidity—a sign that rain was coming.

Thankfully, his grandfather's resting place was under the shade and protection of a large cypress tree, where daisies grew like a blanket across the dirt. It was perfect for him, but the hissing of insects and the dribble of sweat rolling down his temple made him blow out a long breath.

"I'm heading in, Old Man," he murmured and headed back to the small home he once shared with his grandfather.

However, when he entered, he could practically hear the echo of everyone that used to live in it.

As he fixed dinner, he glanced at the kitchen window while sharpening his knife, the sound filling the quiet until a thunder crash shook the windows. A streak of lightning zipped across the sky, causing his eyes to widen. It had been at least a year since the last time it rained.

"Are you sending me a sign, old man?" His eyes shifted to the mound of daisies under the cypress tree swaying in the wind. "I knew if I told you I wanted to leave, you'd figure out how to keep me here."

Another crash rattled the windows, slamming sheets of rain onto the roof. He set the knife and sharpener aside and headed for the front door to stick his hand out. The big, frigid drops slipped between his fingers—a sensation so foreign he closed his eyes for a moment and listened to it, pelting the metal water barrels in the yard. As he inhaled a deep breath, his nostrils flared, vacuuming aroma of wet dirt while steam rose from the hot earth. Taking a chance, he stepped onto the brown, patchy grass and stared up at the sky.

"You will not scare me into staying, old man! I've made my choice."

A kaboom of bright white light filled the sky, sending him staggering backward until reaching the protection of the porch. As he stood there shivering with rain dripping from his hair, he gazed at the wild rabbits scampering across the yard in a frenzy, their tiny feet creating mini splashes while seeking shelter. They would keep his grandfather company.

The rain only lasted ten minutes before the clouds dissolved, and the sun returned.

When Corbin finished cooking, he sat at the small dining table with the trickle of sunset filtering through the windows and its warmth, keeping him company. While cutting into the potatoes on his plate, he glanced at the fireplace off to the side. If he closed his eyes tight enough, he could still picture his mother there, holding her hands out while warming them. He could also see his father in the worn, wingback chair, lazily puffing on a tobacco pipe while turning the pages of a book.

Except those memories stopped forming when his parents died in a car crash on a foggy morning trip into town. Over the years, their faces became just as cloudy as the fog that took them. It was the same with his little brother, who died in his crib in the night, but his grandfather was still vivid, despite being dead for five years.

As Corbin stared across the table where the old man used to sit, he could see his deep-set blue eyes crowned by bushy brows, and the thick mustache he used to twist. He could see the strong shoulders that hunched around his neck while he ate with elbows on the table. The only thing fading was his voice, and the home was too quiet without it.

"I'll miss you, old man," he sighed and took a bite of the seasoned deer meat on his plate. "I don't know when I'm coming back. Maybe once I'm older after I've sown my wild oats and found someone stupid enough to want to live here with me. I'll pick a good one, and I'll steer clear of the floozies since you always said they're nothing but trouble. Although, I kind of like trouble."

A coyote howled somewhere in the meadow, causing Corbin to smirk as it encouraged others in the vicinity to do the same.

"Yeah, yeah, I know, that's you again trying to warn me. I was only kidding about liking trouble." He took another bite of food and added, "well, sort of kidding."

◇◇◇

By morning, fog drifted across the mountains, while deer nibbled at the ground. Eventually, the mist would evaporate, and the sun would scorch the dry earth again, but Corbin wouldn't be around for it. As he stepped down from the porch steps, he slung a canvas duffle bag filled with everything he needed over his shoulder and hopped into his grandfather's old truck. It was a rust-bucket from 2010 and old enough to be a classic. Despite its age, it drove well for quick stops into town, but taking it for a long journey would be a gamble.

Even though his uncle lived in McCall, Idaho, he figured he'd drive right past it and visit an old family friend named Coyote, who was once best friends with his father but moved to Bonners Ferry. The trip would take a few days if he split up the driving, so he shifted the truck into gear and headed for the road. As he drove, he watched the patchy brownish hills disappear while the landscape transitioned into flat land with fewer and fewer trees.

However, four hours into the trip, the truck rolled to a stop in the middle of the highway with steam hissing.

"Damn it!" Corbin pounded the hood.

With his chest rising and falling, he glanced down the long stretching highway. Desert land sat on each side with abandoned buildings to the right and dry shrubs on the left. Shadows from crows flickered across the bleached earth with heat rising from the pavement—making the road wiggle under the sun. Corbin wiped his forehead, examining the stretch of worn pavement and the dotted lines that snaked it. He didn't have a choice other than grabbing his bag and walking.

Thankfully, he didn't make it very far before someone pulled up next to him in a horse-drawn wagon.

"Say, is that your truck back there?"

"Yes." He shielded his eyes, squinting at the friendly, wrinkled face, smiling at him.

"Where ya coming from?"

"Scotts Valley."

"That's by Santa Cruz, right? Well, where ya headed?"

"Idaho."

"Woop. That's far..." the man said with a tick of his head. "Well, I tell ya what. I can give you a lift to the nearest town. From there, you should be able to hire a coach to give you a ride."

"A coach?"

"Yeah, you know, the little horse-drawn buggies?"

"Wouldn't a Greyhound bus or train be faster?"

A rattle of laughter erupted from the older man's mouth while slapping his knee. "Son, you're living in the past. Nobody uses those anymore. Not with the drought and every resource going towards distributing water across the nation. These days the smartest way to travel is by keeping it old school with a horse. Now come on, climb up here."

"Thank you so much," Corbin replied, and once he was comfortable, the man gave a shake to the reins. "I'll figure out a way to repay you, I swear."

"No need. I'm heading into town anyway to pick up a few things."

"Oh, so you live around here?"

"Yep. I've got a dried-up farm off the beaten path which is why we have to rely on trips into town to buy the necessities."

"This drought feels like a plague sometimes, doesn't it?"

"It sure does. This area has gotten worse with marauders stripping people of their goods along the roads."

"Marauders?"

"You're a long way from home," the man laughed. "It only gets worse the further north you go. Especially up the coast."

"Why's that?"

"From what I hear about what's going on in Oregon and Washington," he blew out a whistle. "Not enough livestock and fresh produce. I heard the government was going to ship in canned food to ration out. We've got it bad here, but not THAT bad."

"Not yet, at least."

"Bite your tongue! I hope it never happens. Plus..." the man teetered his head side to side. "I don't condone it. In fact, I believe slavery is downright ugly, but The Hounds got Water Witchers to lend their skills to farmers. Even if it's by force."

Chills peppered Corbin's limbs like the gentle stroke of fingertips. "Who are The Hounds?"

"Just a group that hunts down Water Witchers and sells them to farmers. Like I said, I don't condone it, but Witchers can help us. Yet they hide. It isn't right. If I had their ability, I'd help as many people as I could."

"Maybe they hide because they fear being enslaved?"

"Fair point."

They continued to ride towards the nearest town while Corbin's new companion yammered on. From his maundering, he learned that the man's parents were once migrant farmworkers who ended up settling down with a piece of land. Then as a teenager, he met his wife, got married young, and had eight children.

"It's been a good life," he sighed. "But the last twenty years have been rough with the ongoing drought. We've at least got each other and a place to call home, right?"

"You're very fortunate." Corbin nodded. "I'm on my own now. Which is why I'm heading to Idaho to visit a friend."

"Well, glad to hear you at least have some friends to keep you company. Companionship is important in life." The man tugged on the reins, slowing the horse to a trot, and pointed a gnarled fingernail at the submontane town in the distance. "That's Sage Brush."

"Think I'll be able to rent a room and get some shut-eye?"

"Yup. There's a hotel attached to the local bar. Fair prices too, but I wouldn't stay long."

"Why is that?"

"Small towns have a funny way of treating outsiders. Next thing you know, your valuables are missing, and then you're swinging from the gallows."

"The gallows?" Corbin snorted. "You make it sound like we're living in an old western movie."

"Son, that's exactly what it's like around here. So I suggest you stay vigilant, and keep heading north where it's safer."

Right as the older man signaled for the horse to trot faster, a faint sound bouncing off the terrain pulled their attention back to the road where a group of horseback riders galloped towards them. Small clouds of brown dust swirled around the horses as they pounded their hoofs into the ground, and the thundering instantly spiked the hairs on Corbin's arms. Were they The Hounds the farmer talked about?

"Hey, kid..." the man swallowed. "Reach under the seat and grab my rifle and pistol. Keep them on your lap. Looks like we've got marauders."

As the horse riders slowed to a stop, they formed a line across the highway, blocking the road. It was a clear sign of intimidation and one that said a price would have to be paid.

"What do we do?"

"Looks like we've got no choice but to see what they want. I hope you have nothing valuable in your bag."

Corbin made a mental checklist about what he had. Mostly clothes and food, but also the tools he often used to help him witch for water. If the marauders found it, they could piece together that he was a Water Witcher, which meant that his very life would suddenly become valuable. Corbin's heart rate quickened.

"Put your hands up!" one of them shouted.

Both of them raised their hands into the air as two horseback riders dismounted and walked towards them.

"Where are you headed with that wagon?" the leader asked.

"Just going into Sage Brush for supplies. My wagon is empty."

"We'll see about that." The leader smirked as his companions rounded the wagon and lifted the canvas covering it.

"Empty," one of them shouted.

"Pat them down."

"Hold on to your hat, kid," the farmer whispered.

As the marauders circled to the front to frisk them, the farmer reached for the rifle on Corbin's lap and hopped down with a flea's speed. Time ambled as one, two, three marauders went down while the older man's rifle fired rapidly. Meanwhile, the pistol in Corbin's lap glinted at him under the late afternoon sun. Curling his fingers around it, and whispering a prayer, he shot off two blind rounds while jumping with his bag.

The ratatat of explosive gunfire echoed all around him as the farmer engaged in a shootout. Corbin ducked around the wagon, and from there, continued firing the pistol while hoping he wouldn't turn into vulture meat. Except, his hopes sucked into the hot pavement as the farmer's torso swallowed bullets. The elderly man's hands went to his chest, where crimson bloomed across his t-shirt before keeling forward with a gurgle.

"No!" Corbin shouted.

"Run... kid."

Scrambling to his feet, he dashed for the abandoned buildings while the farmer put every last bit of energy into firing his rifle at their enemy. As Corbin ran, he realized he never asked the farmer for his name.

He was a stranger, with a family, yet he gave his life for him.