I've almost finished the first edit and pass across the first story, Comes the Sandstorm. I am very eager to either paste the whole thing here or pop a link in for your opinions.

This passage is from the next story, One More Mile. It's just a teaser. I'm probably going to be giving away a little too much with this, but it's, to my mind, a powerful scene, when you understand the context (which I am not going to tell you, right now!). Czajka is probably my favourite supporting character. He doesn't say much, but when he speaks, you should listen.

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Czajka stood in the alleyway long after she had gone. Rain hammered the broken concrete, running in sheets off the walls. He leaned back against the brick, the desert cloak darkening as it soaked through.

Slowly, deliberately, he pushed the hood back. Cold water struck his face. It ran into his eyes, down his nose, along his jaw. He let it. He tilted his head upward, teeth clenched, breath held as though he could stop what was coming if he just stayed still enough.

His mouth opened. A silent scream. No sound came.

His face twisted, raw and unguarded and ugly, gone almost as quickly as it appeared. His shoulders hitched once. Again. He pressed the heel of his hand hard against his mouth, knuckles white, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. Finally, barely more than a breath, lost to the rain, “I’m so sorry.”

The words did not echo. They did not answer.

He pulled the hood up again, turned from the mouth of the alley, and disappeared into the wet and cold dark.