The shadow that the sun prints on the parched sand is as sharp as pressed metal, and its edge creeps towards him like a curse. He huddles into the shrinking panel of shade. An hour until the second sun rises. Maybe less.
He rubs the visor of the envirosuit and wishes again that it wasn’t broken. His thumb smears the dust on the cracked glass. He remembers the man he killed to take it.
Beside him the woman’s chest rises and falls, her breathing ragged. If the girl does not return soon he will have a decision to make.
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This is a 100-word flash fiction story written as part of #SmallTales, with the prompt “Bluff”. Look up the rules and take part here.
Simon John Cox 