Covered in days of dust, hungry, and kneeling, Gregory King listened as the train chugged along the dried-up riverbed, some two or three miles behind him. He dreamt about escape. A pointed boot, driven hard into his back, stopped that. He fell forward, arms bound, and landed on his face. One of the men pulled him up. He spit sand, and shook, trying to get it out of his eyes.
The train was quiet, likely in the next town, now, King thought. A locust landed on his knee. He stared at it and never heard the shot that killed him.