His lungs exhausted from the endless shouting, his arms shaking with helpless fury, he sank to his knees in the sand. His head bowed, his ragged chin on his battered breast, eyes bloodshot, drifting closed at last. His fury was spent, done, and the abated emotion left a bitter well in his chest. He raised his head, looking out across the shimmering sands.

From across the desert they came, bearing gnarled tree limbs, pieces of broken metal, or else brandishing their own bare hands. Their stumbling, stomping feet threw sand into the air as they charged forward, lips too parched to cry out, eyes staring.

He smiled even as the first reached him. He did not even raise his arms to defend himself. He had brought them together. He had made them, the children of the wastelands, feel again, if even for a moment. That was enough.