When it came to sensing and finding underground water reserves in the desert, Corbin could detect them with his eyes closed. Yet, his ability to sense danger, wasn't as sharp, and he was about to run into trouble which would change him forever.

Brutal wind raked loose earth like a fisher’s net, collecting debris before scattering it about and staining the sky in beige. Corbin tugged the collar of his jacket, protecting his nose from the dust while fighting against the wind, and making his way through the small ghost town towards the glowing cantina sign. Pedestrians hurried along, ducking into the closest building they could find, while shopkeepers frantically slammed window shutters to insulate their stores. Being a water witcher, Corbin was always vigilant for greedy people seeking to enslave him for his water-finding abilities, and something about the town felt as if countless eyes spied on him.

 “Better find some shelter before this sandstorm gets worse!” a man shouted down at him before closing his apartment window and drawing the curtains.

A dust storm was about to hit—an occurrence becoming more and more common thanks to the drought. It had been twenty-plus years of thirst, with sporadic rain leaving most of the nation parched and zero change in sight. Corbin continued pushing forward towards the cantina, pulling his jacket tighter. A flyer glued to an electric post flapped in the wind like a hummingbird’s wings, but flew off, and zipped straight for his face, nicking his cheek. 

“Ouch.” He grimaced, as dirt sprayed his face, agitating the cut with a fiery sting.

When he got to his destination, the robust gusts forced him to use both hands to yank the door open. Cantina music flooded onto the sidewalk, welcoming him before even stepping inside, but then it was followed by shouting.

“You’re letting in the sand, you moron!” a man yelled and pushed his weight into the heavy door.

“Geez... I’m sorry.” Corbin glanced around, adjusting his collar and taking in the patrons. “Is everyone here as friendly as you?”

The man reeled back, laughing. “Hah! Not really, just when a storm hits. Come on, and I’ll buy you a beer.”

“No, that’s ok.”

“Ah, come on. You’ve been on the road a while.” He tossed his arm over Corbin’s shoulder and began guiding him through the maze of water-stained tables as curious guests observed. “I’m Juan Carlos, and this restaurant has been in my family for years.”

“You own this place?”

“Of course! That’s my photo right there.” He pointed to a large family mural on the far wall. “Patrons packed the cantina every night, but the drought caused many to move away. There’s only a few of us left who refuse to give up hope.”

“Is that why it looks like a ghost town?”

“Exactly. But it’s like this for miles across south and central California.” Juan Carlos nodded and motioned to a seat at the bar. “So, where are you coming from?”

“Around...” Corbin shrugged.

“Oh, come on. You can do better than that. We rarely get people from out of town. I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but this place isn’t a tourist attraction anymore.”

Corbin glimpsed at the dilapidated walls with chipping paint exposing the bricks behind it, and the wooden staircase wrapping its way to the upper dining area. It had long ago lost its glossy shine, along with the disco ball in the center of the ceiling. Even the paper lanterns strung across it were a faint resemblance of their once vibrant colors.

“I’ve been traveling for the last ten years,” Corbin said. “I was in Baja with my family for a while. Then I returned Stateside but haven’t remained in the same spot long. I like to keep moving.”

“In Baja?” Juan Carlos lifted his brows. “So you’re one of those gringo-looking Mexicans?”

“No,” Corbin chuckled. “Just a gringo.”

“But a gringo who knows how to speak Spanish, no?”

“Poquito.” Corbin demonstrated with his index finger and thumb.

“Well, knowing a bit of multiple languages is wise. At least enough to help you out of a jam. I’m learning German. Anyway...” He reached into the cooler below and fished out a beer before sliding it to Corbin. “Where are you heading after this?”

“That depends,” Corbin replied, uncapping the bottle.

“On what?”

“Busco el Oso,” he said in broken Spanish.

Juan Carlos cocked his brow. “El Oso?”

“Yes.”

“Interesting.” He folded his arms. “Who did you say is your family in Baja?”

“I didn’t say.”

“Smart. That’s smart.” Juan Carlos wagged his finger. It remained quiet for a moment as he rubbed his chin in thought, but then he stopped and narrowed his eyes at him. “I’m going to say a name. Nod one time, if I’m right.”

“Name it.”

“Archibald.” A faint smile appeared on Juan Carlos’s face when Corbin nodded, but then it disappeared. “Follow me.”

“Where?”

“Just follow me.” 

Apprehension caused the hairs on his neck to electrify as Corbin glanced around the cantina. His old friend Archibald warned him about returning to the States, but he was too stubborn to listen and missed being home. 

Now, he wondered if he should have listened? His eyes landed on a table of patrons drinking beer, minding their business, and neither of them had weapons—a good sign. However, sitting in the corner was a man and a woman dressed in black capes, their gazes flickering back to their drinks. Despite the storm, the weather was blistering, so wearing capes was an odd choice, and they didn’t fit in with the rest of the patrons scattered about.

Dangers were everywhere, but if Corbin allowed paranoia to consume him, he’d never step foot outside again. Living in seclusion wasn’t what he wanted anymore. So, deciding to have a little faith, he guzzled his beer and followed Juan Carlos.

It was a short walk down the hallway, yet a sprinkle of sweat formed on his forehead, and his heart rate quickened while stepping into the restroom. The door’s bolt latched in place at the twist of Juan Carlos’s fingers, shutting out the cantina’s noise, and locking them inside together.

“I need you to strip down to your underwear.”

“What for?” Corbin backed into the door with a thud.

“Just do it, please.”

“Not until you tell me why.”

“I need you to prove you’re not wearing a wire or recording our conversation.”

“Why would I be?”

Juan Carlos folded his arms and smirked. “Do you really need to ask?”

“No, I guess not,” Corbin sighed and pulled his shirt over his head. “But for my sake, you better be el Oso!”

He stripped down until barefoot in threadbare boxers and stood there as the sink’s faucet dripped. A hint of Pine-Sol filled the air and a chill of goosebumps spread up his spine like a burst pipe, resulting in a shiver. Juan Carlos wasted no time circling him, searching for a wire, and then did a quick pat-down of Corbin’s groin.

“Alright. Get dressed,” he said. “And maybe consider getting new underwear. I’m surprised they didn’t disintegrate when I touched them.”

“Funny.”

As Corbin pulled his clothing back on, he watched Juan Carlos fuss with one of the urinal stalls until a small hidden door revealed itself. Inside of the wall were shelves with weapons displayed and price tags dangling from them.

“So, what are you looking for?” Juan Carlos motioned to the arsenal. “If you need something bigger, I’ll need at least seventy-two hours before I can provide that.”

“Just a pistol and maybe that knife.” Corbin pointed to a dagger with a brass knuckle handle.

“Ah, a Knuckle Knife. Excellent choice.” Juan Carlos reached for a pistol and handed it to him. “I think this Kimber Micro is good for you.”

Corbin weighed it in his hands with furrowed brows. “It’s a little small.”

“No, a pocket pistol is perfect for civilians looking to protect themselves from attackers. Plus, I can tell you’re not used to handling weapons, and this model is smooth on the trigger and easy on the recoil. You’ll appreciate that when someone tries to rob you.”

“I’ll take your word for it. How much?”

“Well...” Juan Carlos folded his arms as he stared at Corbin in thought. “A friend of Archibald’s is a friend of mine. Have anything to trade?”

Corbin leaned against the sink, weighing his options. So far, returning Stateside had resulted in dodging one marauder after another, which is what his friend Archibald warned him about. However, Juan Carlos wasn’t just anyone. He was a man who his old friend told him to find if he ever needed help. Archibald wouldn’t recommend someone he couldn’t trust with his secret, so he blew out a breath.

“When I walked into the cantina, I felt a current of water flowing under here,” he said with a tap of his foot to the cracked bathroom tile. Silence followed his words as Juan Carlos stared back at him, his eyes narrowing as if digesting the meaning behind his statement.

“What do you mean, you could feel it?” he asked.

“Exactly that. I could feel it.”

“Are you telling me you’re a Water Witcher?”

Corbin nodded.

“That’s a dangerous thing to admit, my friend. You know they started hunting your kind again after the Water Division failed to find witchers to aid them in their mission?”

“I know. I’ve been dodging them ever since returning to the States.”

“So, if you know this, why would you reveal such precious information to me?”

“Because Archibald told me I can trust you, so I’m hoping you’ll prove I can.”

“What will you do for me?”

“I’m assuming this place has a basement. I’ll show you where to dig, but my manual labor isn’t part of this exchange.”

“How is that even a fair trade?”

“I’d say it’s plenty fair. I’m taking a colossal risk telling you what I am. For all I know, you could knock me out, and sell me. Which would be a mistake.”

“How so?”

“Because the information I’m giving you about where to dig is priceless, considering you’ll have a private water source. So do we have a deal?”

Juan Carlos let out a long breath while rubbing the back of his neck. He paced to the window and stared as the drippy faucet filled the silence. He exhaled another breath and said, “We’ve got a deal, amigo.”

∆∆∆

 By the time Corbin exited the cantina, dust from the storm had settled, and citizens were walking the streets again. A hotel sat on a corner, the sign faded and missing letters, but it didn’t matter because he wasn’t heading there. Nevertheless, the sun would soon descend, so he needed to search for a place to camp and it needed to be away from town. 

With his new pocket pistol and knife tucked into his trousers, he felt a little less on edge about wandering the desert alone.

“Take care of yourself out there,” Juan Carlos said from the doorway. “Thieves love wandering the desert.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“You can spend the night here if you want. My wife is an excellent cook.”

“Thanks for helping me, but I gotta go.”

“Suit yourself.” Juan Carlos nodded.

Before reluctance could anchor his feet from moving, he stepped onto the sidewalk and began distancing himself from the city and its watchful eyes.

It was a sweltering hour into his journey when he pressed his water canteen to his lips and found it empty.  

“Oh, come on!” he shouted, his voice echoing across the desolate terrain, reminding him how easily sound could travel.

Drawing attention to himself was a risk, and the sensation of being watched returned with a chill rolling down his back. However, when he glanced around, he saw no one. 

“Just this once…” he sighed, and closed his eyes while spreading his arms, and proceeded to wiggle his fingers. 

Taking a few steps forward, he wiggled his fingers, searching for the tug he often felt when a water source was near. Sweat beads rolled from his forehead, making concentration difficult as the sun hammered onto his back.

“Come on, come on, find it...”

Frustrated, he wiped his brow with a rough swipe of his forearm and stopped to take in his surroundings again. It was dry earth and shrubs for miles. Living in a time of thirst, where water had more worth than gold, his ability to find it when others couldn’t was dangerous. Yet, sometimes he didn’t have a choice, so he slid the backpack from his shoulder, and retrieved a pair of dowsing rods. 

“Let’s try this again.”

He walked forward with the rods parallel in front of him, letting the ancient method find the water for him. But after a while, the rods grew slick in his hands and began sliding in opposite directions. 

“I know there’s water around here. Find it, damn it, find it!” he growled at himself. Before taking another step, he paused and closed his eyes. “You gotta relax. Now try this again.”

Truthfully, he hated using dowsing rods. Not only were they a dead giveaway of being a water witcher, but they were too easy to rely on and he preferred using his hands to keep his senses sharp. 

Which was why he didn’t hear the rubble crunching behind him. 

When he stepped forward, an immense pain erupted across his skull, followed by his body crumpling to the hot desert sand. He blinked several times, but the terrain wiggled before him under the mirage of heat. 

With a groan, he rolled onto his back, and above him stood two dark shadows. He blinked again but felt himself fading as their greedy hands searched through his pockets.

He couldn’t help but chuckle. Perhaps the life of a Water Witcher would always be a never-ending hunt?

Then, everything went black.