Dustbound Watch

Motion cracks the air first: an engine stutters forward, forward, over brittle grass. I keep the perimeter taut—ropes rasping, wire warm from sun—while the rider lifts a red glove like a flare, not waving goodbye, not arriving either. The yurts bruise the horizon, canvas seams scabbed with dust, turbines clicking thin patience behind them. Smoke—or a weather wall—boils and thins, an unasked spirit that only lives in shadowed light. The sign sits low and stubborn, hacked metal and splinters spelling Where Vojta? It cuts my palm when I steady it, paint grit biting skin; protecting this question is protecting the people who sleep here. I block the tracks, boots grinding, and say, "Not leaving without him." The bike coughs closer, faster, urgency scraping like sand in teeth. We tighten knots, touch ground, count breaths. The camp holds. Vojta does not return.