"Sand, sand, sand, and oh, Mina," Emmett said, "look, more sand."
Mina turned a page in her journal. Her inkpot had cracked somewhere along their journey. The blue ink had seeped and slipped, smudging her map and the detailed notes she had taken.
She sighed, wiping her stained fingers on her skirts. "Do you have a grievance against sand?"
"Yes!"âEmmett leant over the rim of the hot-air balloon ...