At night, Parea dreamt of the water. In the morning, the riverbed was still dry.

Each evening Parea brushed the stars from her dark mane or rang them out in a copper basin at the foot of her bed. Ping. Tink. Parea would watch the moonlight through her window while beads of star fizz fell from her fingertips. And she would wonder about the water, just before she dreamed of it.

The riverbed was as wide as a five minute walk, and longer than she’d attempted to discover. Her mother’s house sat somewhere in the middle, where Parea lived and thought about it all. Long ago, before she was born, the river was a powerful and always moving through this dusty ravine. Besides dry stones there were wet ones, and not a breathable inkling of oxygen for either she or her mother beneath the surface. These were the moments her dreams enlightened her to. Even the screened deck could not protect her then. She and her mother were always both dead in an instant, and washed away on the current or dashed on toothy rocks. But in the morning, the riverbed was still dry.