The Desert Expedition

I always wondered what people do to pass the time when they walk through the desert.

Do they meditate? Reflect on their life choices? Whisper their regrets to the sand?

Do they imagine the silence is poetic, instead of just hot and itchy?

I thought maybe I’d get a profound answer someday.

And sadly...

Sota had the answer.

The desert stretched on forever.

Or at least that’s how I felt walking behind two camels and three very emotionally unstable travelers. Heat shimmered across the dunes like the world was being fried in a grammatical skillet. It was quiet. Which, if you didn't realize by now, it's when something happens.

And it happened.

Sota cleared his throat.

“No,” Hana warned from her camel.

But it was too late.

🎵 “The desert is such a vast land

Where you can't see nothing but sand

You can't find an ice cream truck

Or one tarte du Chocolat—”

Kaito, deadpan, added the back vocals. “Chocolaaaat…”

🎵 “And nobody can comprehend

What is a lemonade stand.”

Kaito harmonized. Poorly. “Le-mon-aade staaaand—”

Hana whipped her camel around. “If you two don’t shut up right now, I will personally leave you both in the sand to get eaten by sun-scorched pigeons.”

Sota blinked. “...There are pigeons out here?”

“I don’t know,” she muttered. “I don't even know why I said that...”

They crested the next dune—and the town came into view.

It looked like someone tried to build civilization using leftovers from a failed garage sale. Wooden stalls were arranged in a crooked circle, tied together with string, tarps, and—yes—a full-size Doraemon bedsheet. No one had signs anymore. Instead, merchants had tied items to poles above their stalls: a hammer, a frying pan, a toothbrush, and, on one particularly chaotic stand… a live goat.

“Okay,” Kaito muttered. “This is either a market or a post-apocalyptic Renaissance fair.”

As they passed the first stall, a girl peeked out from behind a pile of dusty rugs.

She was young, quiet, and way too beautiful for someone who lives in the middle of nowhere. But her eyes locked on Sota like he was the last functioning sentence in the world.

Sota blinked. “Uh… hey. Do you have any water?”

She nodded. Blushed. And ran away.

They followed her inside a crooked clay building. The inside of the house was cooler than the sunlit chaos outside, but not by much. A ceiling fan spun lazily above them, blades clicking like they were holding a grudge. The room was decorated with faded tapestries, plastic lawn chairs, and one majestic photo of a camel in a graduation cap.

The girl was tugging at her father’s robe and whispering shyly:

“Papa. I want to marry the music man.”

"WHAT?" The three of them said in unison.

The girl gestured at him again, smiling like someone who’d just discovered the concept of love from a poorly translated soap opera.

Sota stood frozen near the entrance like he’d walked into a trap. Which, to be fair, he had.

Her father squinted at Sota with the deep suspicion of a man who’d once traded three goats for a haunted microwave. He was bald, sunburnt, and wore a robe made from stitched-together beach towels.

“You singed,” the father said slowly, pointing at Sota.

“I—what?” Sota blinked.

“You did sing. In the sand. Make daughter smile. That is important thing. Very wife thing.”

Sota turned to Hana. “Am I having a stroke?”

“Nope,” she said, “this is happening right now.”

The father leaned in. “You be married. Is good trade. My daughter, she want. You... not ugly."

Kaito jumped in between them. "Sorry sir! We need save world! Evil owl, very bad! Sota...rescue team?"

Hana leaned towards Sota. "He knows that those affected by the Babel Virus can still understand good grammar right?"

Sota just shrugged as they spoke in what could only be described as a crime against sentence structure, and, somehow, still understanding each other perfectly.

"So, my daughter husband hero? Very good!"

"No! No husband! We...go! America!"

"Go? No go! I give dowry! Big boat."

Hearing that, Kaito just snapped back into grammar. "“Wait. You’re offering us a boat? Like—an actual boat?”

The man nodded, beaming. “Boat go whoosh. You want America? Boat go America. But then, he come back," he said pointing at Sota.

Kaito spun to Hana. “Can we say yes?”

Sota froze. “I—excuse me—what—NO?”

“We do need a boat…” Hana said.

Sota’s eyes widened. “We are not trading me for transportation!”

Kaito ignored him. “So how fast does this boat float?”

Sota spun toward them. “HELLO?! I am not a bartering system!”

Kaito patted his shoulder. “Sota, buddy. It’s just a wedding. People fake-marry each other all the time.”

“I don’t even know her name!”

“She likes your voice,” Hana said. “It’s romantic. Ish.”

“This is emotional kidnapping!”

“She offered you water.”

“That’s how cults start!”

Kaito leaned in. “Look… it’s just a weird ceremony, right? After we get to America, you can just ghost her. No big deal.”

“I DON’T WANT TO BE GHOST MARRIED!”

The girl clapped excitedly and ran out of the room. A child passed the window a second later dragging a goat in a veil.

Sota sat down on the floor and covered his face.

“I’m going to die in a stupid desert because I sang about lemonade.”

Hana crossed her arms. “You’re going to live because you’re marrying the girl who liked your song. There’s a difference.”

The father walked back in, holding a stack of hand-painted napkins. “For vow cry,” he said proudly, handing them to Sota.

Sota took one.

It had a duck on it.

He sighed.

“For the first time in my life, I feel the need to get drunk.”

"Really? You've never drunk before?" Kaito asked like he's been insulted by the comment.

"Nope," Hana replied. "He was scared that if he drinks more than one beer he'll fall into an alcoholic coma and never wake up."

Both of them started laughing.

"I CAN HEAR YOU GUYS!" Sota said, still on the floor.

Kaito patted his back. "Don't worry. We got you! We'll call that the rehearsal dinner."