I shuddered, dragging the torn ends of my bloodstained shirt closer. It was an odd sensation, the ice chill of the night on my burning skin. I looked to the sky, peppered with stars. If only there were clouds to hold in the days heat and protect me from it tomorrow. If tomorrow came.

I’d been walking for two days since the accident that killed my pilot. A sandstorm had hit us without warning and engulfed the helicopter. We crashed. That’s all I remember. I woke concussed next to the burning wreck, and ever since I’ve been walking aimlessly across this barren wasteland; waiting for someone, anyone to realize I’m missing.

Despite the night’s bone-rattling cold, I felt a sense of dread seeing the sun in the morning. The cruel desert being what it is made sure that there was a harsh sunrise the next day. And it was hot. Unbearably hot. The skin on my back was already starting to crisp once more and it was only just first light. The pain in my blistered feet returned all too soon, after a night where I felt nothing but a somewhat soothing numbness.

I longed for shade, but even more importantly, water. The water bottle I limply carried was long since empty. I knew I didn’t have long left. I tried to moisten my lips to relieve them of the pain but my tongue was too swollen to move. Every part of my body was burnt, red and aching. Even my eyes felt sun burnt.

From time to time I stumbled in pain as sharp gravel pushed into my blisters that were now oozing and infected. I pushed myself into a staggering run in a final attempt to survive. I could see an ‘oasis’ up ahead but in the back of my mind I knew I would never get there. Gasping, I collapsed with the effort as I was overcome with extreme exhaustion, heat stroke and nausea. The last thing I remember was the faint throb of what I though, what I hoped was an approaching helicopter. I never found out if it was a helicopter.