In his fever world, everything seemed to happen in the blink of an eye. It seemed only a second after he had gurgled feebly that the distant equine figure was right next to him, touching and nosing at him, so close its scent almost overpowered that of the ocean. The mare – for it was a mare, though it was not Kazga, as he had originally thought – was chattering at him, and her voice seemed somehow both muffled and as sharp and piercing as daggers in his ears. Orhan cringed at the noise, his head throbbing, and let his eyelids flutter closed.

He must have blacked out for a few seconds – though in truth it felt like hours – for, when he opened his bloodshot eyes, he experienced yet again the surprise of having a horse leaning over him. He blinked, struggling to comprehend what was happening, then all at once recognized the mare’s face. How could he have forgotten? Was he really that sick? “Ana,” he whispered in a voice so hoarse it was more of a croak. Exhaustion weighed him down still – he had never felt so tired in his life – yet somehow, after several lurching attempts, he managed to roll awkwardly into an upright position, dark legs folded beneath him. Even this singular effort was enough to spend his energy, however, and so he remained in that position for some time, breathing laboriously and fighting a wave of dizziness far stronger than the gentle tides that licked at his belly.

Somewhere in the fiery pits of his mind, a little germinating seed of rationality remained, and it was this seed that prompted him to finally speak a complete sentence. “I... searched... for you.” He did not look his mother in the eye, but stared at the bubbles of sea foam that melted into the wet sand between them. Under the hot desert sun, he felt as if he could have done the very same.