WHEN THE LAST passenger disembarks, the minibus pulls back onto the highway, leaving behind a thick finger of dust that gradually shifts north in the hot air. They also walk north, away from the highway, through mangy scrubland that has forgotten even the concept of rain. The sweat on their exposed skin glistens like pool water as they move.

After fifteen minutes, they reach a small hill and begin to climb, slipping here or there in the loose topsoil, swearing under their breath. Some stop at the hill’s apex to admire the strata of stone-washed mountains to the far west, but most just go on.