The sun's first rays warm my exposed skin like a kind, gentle fire, caressing my face. Light blinds me more than darkness ever could--light from the vast sunrise, bouncing off the dunes as a mirror. I shield my dry eyes. These dunes, like an endless sea of waves frozen in place...

This is the Desert of the Lost.

This is my life now.

I must return to the Land Below. The old men of the crags always joke of exiles. They say that, should an exile live and return, that he'd earn his right to live. I'm expected to die here. The Desert of the Lost kills without, discernment, without mercy, and without exception.

I plan to end that pattern.

I've always read about the sun. The banned books always speak about the sun as a beacon, an illustration of truth and goodness. A necessity to life. But the books we're meant to read--the "right" books--tell us the sun destroys. I don't trust the right books. Surely the sun is dangerous, but people survived forever before the exodus underground. You just need to know how to survive.

They took my banned books. Took them and burned them. Luckily, I remember a lot of what I read. One of my favorites, "Modern Geography," told me all I needed to know about the old world. Whether the old world only exists now as a desert or not, I don't know. But I do remember reading about surviving in the desert.

The Overthrower always gives the same pack to exiles. I check my new bag, making good use of the early morning cool. I know deserts only heat up as the day grows long. I wonder what the night in the old world looks like? I pocket the idea. Time to survive. I open the muslin bag, sifting through the contents: a rope (probably 20 foot long), a singular knife with a bone handle, a blanket made of woven web, and a full waterskin. I grab the blanket and wrap myself. I think of how counterintuitive wrapping myself in the sticky fabric might be, but my book said keeping the sun off your skin was the second most important factor of staying alive.

Now my next order of business, finding the most important factor--water. I stumble into the sand, meandering directionless, hoping to find some sign of survival. I must be strong.

For Tilly, I must be strong.