Halima has been walking since six in the morning. Yusuf, four years old, rides on her back, inside the blue cloth knotted at her waist. Aisha, six, holds her left hand. They have walked thirty kilometers since Thursday. Half the road is left. It is May 23, 02026, eleven forty in the morning.

The dry acacia is the only one on the plain. Halima stops. She lets Yusuf down. She sets him on the ground, in the shadow of the trunk. Aisha sits beside her brother. Halima stays on her feet a moment, then leans down, props herself against the trunk. She sits.

In the jute bag: the onion. Pale yellow. Small. Sweet. It is the last of the three her mother-in-law, Fadumo, had given her two days before.

The pocketknife is in the right pocket of her dress. Rusted. Short blade.

Halima takes the onion. She weighs it in her hand. It weighs about sixty grams. She sets it back on her knee.

Yusuf cries quietly. His lips cracked.

Aisha says nothing. Her lips too.

Halima takes the pocketknife. She opens it. She lays it next to the onion, on her knee.

She thinks: three equal slices. One for Yusuf, one for Aisha, one for herself. Twenty grams each. Saliva, liquid, something.

She thinks: two whole slices. Thirty grams for the children. Nothing for herself.

She thinks: thirty kilometers from Dolo Ado, on foot, with Yusuf on her back, Aisha walking.

She thinks: yesterday evening, at six, she had felt her legs go light. She had sat down ten minutes. She had set off again.

She thinks: Fadumo.

Fadumo stayed in the hut at Luuq. Sixty-eight years old. She stands only to go to the well, forty meters from the door. The well dried up in February. Now she gets water from the neighbor, half a liter a day. Halima brought it to her every morning before leaving. Since Thursday no one brings it.

Halima had said: mother, come with us. Fadumo had said: I will die on the road to Dolo Ado. Halima had said: I will carry you. Fadumo had said: you carry your children. She had pulled three onions out of the hemp bag. She had said: take this one too.

Halima had taken it. She had left Thursday at four in the morning.

The first onion they ate Thursday evening, at the start of the night, in three equal slices, under the stars.

The second Friday at noon, in three equal slices, in the shade of a bush.

The third is today.

Halima looks at the onion. She looks at her children. She looks at the sun.

She thinks: thirty kilometers, you don't get there with nothing.

She thinks: thirty kilometers, you don't get there without a mother.

She takes the pocketknife. She lays the blade on the onion. She cuts.

One slice. Thick. She takes it. She hands it to Aisha. Aisha takes it. She brings it to her mouth. She chews.

Halima cuts again. A second slice. As thick as the first. She takes it. She hands it to Yusuf. Yusuf takes it. He brings it to his mouth. He starts crying while he chews.

Halima looks at what is left. It is a third. A smaller slice. Sixty grams divided by three is less than twenty.

Halima takes the slice. She brings it to her mouth. She chews slowly.

The saliva comes back. Her legs respond. Her lips less cracked.

She thinks of Fadumo who said, two days before, "take this one too."

She thinks Fadumo had counted for three.

She stands up. Yusuf is still crying. Aisha watches him. Halima unties the blue cloth from the low branch of the acacia where she had hung it. She bends down. She picks up Yusuf. She lifts him onto her back. She knots him at her waist. She takes Aisha's hand. She begins to walk.

Thirty kilometers. She walks.