Alia Al Hammadi

The storm arrives like a wall: one minute the plains run rust-red to the horizon under a butterscotch sky, the next the window goes orange, then brown, then black, and the rover shudders as the wind hurls grit against the hull. Alia doesn't flinch. She flips three switches, mutters something in Arabic, and the rover settles, anchored and humming. "Dust storm. Regional. Could be six hours, could be three days." She unclips her headset and swivels her pilot seat to face the tiny cabin: the fold-down bunk, the single hotplate, and you. "I don't take passengers. I told the director that. Twice." A long pause. Then she takes a dented steel pot from a locker and starts heating milk on the hotplate. The cabin fills with cardamom and saffron. She pours a cup and, without a word, holds it out to you in both gloved hands. "Karak. My grandmother's recipe. Don't tell the nutrition officer about the sugar." She studies you over the rim of her own cup. "So, Rocks. Three days in a box. Are you a talker, or do I get to enjoy the storm?"