The rain began before they reached the camp.
Not a storm — not yet — but a steady, cold drizzle that soaked through their jackets and made every breath feel heavier. The landscape around them had turned to grey: dunes of salt and sand merging with the sea's dull horizon. The wind carried the scent of rot and wet iron.
By the time they stumbled back through the perimeter fence, night had fallen. The small campfire in the center of the settlement hissed under the rain. Zahira was the first to run forward, her eyes wide when she saw Younes safe and shivering in Cynthia's arms.
She dropped to her knees, hugging him tight. "Mon Dieu… I thought—"
Soufiane touched her shoulder. "He's fine. We all are."
That was a lie, and everyone knew it. The look on Amal's face said enough — her eyes were red from salt, her hands trembling as she set down a wet backpack. Myriam didn't speak at all. Rafael stood apart, water dripping from his hair, the crate of supplies still strapped to his chest.
Inés emerged from one of the tents, wrapping a blanket around Julien's shoulders. He tried to smile when he saw them return.
"You made it back," he said weakly.
"Barely," Amal answered.
They gathered inside the largest tent. The flicker of a gas lantern threw soft shadows over the group. Soufiane sat across from Rafael, his jaw clenched. The Spaniard placed the crate between them and unlatched it. Inside, there were sealed packages of antibiotics, syringes, bandages — all perfectly dry.
"This," Rafael said, tapping the crate, "is worth more than gold now. And it belongs to my people."
Soufiane leaned forward. "We bled for it. My people too."
Rafael's expression didn't change. "You risked it because you needed us. Don't mistake that for charity."
A sharp silence followed. Amal shifted, ready to say something, but Soufiane raised a hand. He stared at Rafael, his voice calm but dangerous.
"So what happens now?"
Rafael looked around the tent, meeting each face one by one. "You wanted passage south. Toward Marseille. That's still possible — if we leave at dawn. My convoy will take you through the no-man's zone. After that, you're on your own."
Zahira frowned. "And what do you want in return?"
The Spaniard smiled faintly. "Help me reach the refinery. There's fuel there. Enough for both our groups, if we can secure it."
Amal groaned. "You mean another suicide run."
Cynthia looked at Soufiane. Her eyes were tired, the kind of tired that sinks into the bones. "If we don't do it, we stay stuck here. We'll starve or worse."
Soufiane rubbed his forehead, feeling the weight of every choice since Germany. He thought of the drowned corpses on the Arcadia, of the way the world seemed to keep demanding more blood for every mile they traveled.
He finally said, "We help you. But once we reach Marseille, we're done. No more debts."
Rafael extended his hand. "Agreed."
Soufiane hesitated, then shook it. His grip was firm, unyielding.
The moment felt heavy — like sealing a fate neither of them fully understood.
---
Later, when the others had gone to rest, Soufiane sat outside beneath the rain. The camp was quiet except for the sound of the sea, rolling endlessly beyond the dunes. Cynthia joined him, a blanket draped around her shoulders.
"You trust him?" she asked softly.
Soufiane stared at the dark horizon. "No. But I trust that he wants to survive as badly as we do."
Cynthia sat beside him. For a while, neither spoke. The silence between them wasn't empty; it was full of everything left unsaid — the losses, the exhaustion, the tiny flame of something human that still flickered beneath all that ruin.
Finally, she said, "When this is over… what will you do?"
He didn't answer right away. He thought of Morocco — the heat, the smell of mint tea, his mother's laughter before everything fell apart.
"I'll find them," he said at last. "My family. If there's anything left to find."
Cynthia nodded. "Then I'll help you."
He turned to look at her. The rain traced silver lines across her face. "Why?"
"Because you'd do the same," she said simply.
A long moment passed between them — quiet, fragile, real. Then thunder rolled again over the sea.
Soufiane rose to his feet, pulling the hood of his jacket up. "Get some sleep. Tomorrow, we walk again."
Cynthia stood too. "You ever get tired of saying that?"
He gave a faint smile. "Every day."
They walked back toward the tents, the light of the camp flickering in the rain like a dying heart. Behind them, the ocean whispered against the shore — as if reminding them that no one really escapes it.
And when dawn came, the convoy would move south again, deeper into the broken lands.