Range Anxiety

EVs, Camels. 850 words, 4 minute read. With Claude Sonnet.

The last drops of water slipped down Rashid's throat, each precious mouthful automatically distributed through his complex network of internal chambers. Around him, the small oasis buzzed with morning activity as traders secured their cargo, but Rashid remained still, his senses – refined by generations of evolution – measuring the precise volume of each stomach compartment. Other camels might rush their morning fill-up, but Rashid knew better. In the unforgiving Sahara, precision meant survival.

A young camel darted past, nearly catching his foot on one of Rashid's folded legs. "Still drinking? The other camels finished ages ago!"

"Leave him be, Karim," called Malik, a weathered camel with three decades of desert crossings etched into his face. "That one's got his own ways." Malik approached Rashid, checking the careful arrangement of spice bags along his flank. "Though I must admit, old friend, your charging habits do try my patience sometimes."

Rashid lifted his head with deliberate grace, letting the last drops settle into his secondary reservoir. His main storage chamber registered at precisely optimal capacity – not so full that movement would be inefficient, not so empty as to leave him without reserves. "The caravan that arrives is worth more than the caravan that arrives quickly," he replied, using an old camel proverb that made Malik chuckle.

---

The morning sun painted the dunes in shades of amber as the caravan set out. Rashid fell into his practiced rhythm – each step calibrated through years of experience to minimize water loss. Around him, younger camels pranced and chattered, burning precious energy. A particularly boisterous three-year-old named Zara bounced alongside him.

"How can you walk so slowly?" she asked, kicking up sand. "We've been at that oasis for four whole days. I'm ready to run!"

Rashid watched her inefficient movements with concern. "The desert," he said carefully, "rewards those who—"

"—who respect its ways," Zara finished, rolling her eyes. "You sound like my grandmother."

The first two days passed without incident, the caravan making steady progress across the endless sea of sand. On the third morning, Rashid noticed subtle changes in their course. The shadow of the sun fell differently across his back than it had on previous journeys, and the wind carried unfamiliar scents. He kept his observations to himself until mid-day, when the head trader called for an unexpected stop.

The traders gathered in a tight circle, their voices low but their gestures sharp and worried. Rashid strained his ears to catch their words over the whisper of the wind.

"These ridges aren't right," one trader said, pointing to landmarks that should have been familiar but weren't. "We took a wrong turn at the Red Dune field."

"Impossible," another trader protested. "We've made this crossing a dozen times."

"The storm last month changed the landscape," the first trader replied, his voice heavy. "These dunes... they're not where they should be."

The traders fell silent, calculating distances and resources. Rashid did his own calculations, measuring the weight of the water in his chambers against the heat of the day and the distance yet to travel. The results weren't promising.

As the afternoon wore on, the caravan split into search parties. Rashid volunteered to accompany Malik on one of the search runs, knowing his efficient movement would allow them to cover more ground. The sun tracked across the sky as they searched, the temperature climbing until the air shimmered like a mirage. In his primary chamber, Rashid felt his water levels dropping steadily.

It was Zara who spotted salvation – a dust cloud on the horizon that proved to be a larger caravan, their line of camels stretching across the dunes like prayer beads. After careful negotiations between the caravans' leaders, an agreement was reached. The smaller group would follow in the larger one's wake, benefiting from their knowledge of the shifted landscape and the wind protection their numbers provided.

"Luck favors the prepared," Rashid commented to Zara as they fell into formation behind the larger group. The young camel, her earlier energy tempered by the day's events, merely nodded.

---

The next two days tested every drop of water in Rashid's reserves. He found himself drawing on techniques passed down through generations of desert crossings – tucking his head just so to minimize sun exposure, synchronizing his breathing with his steps to reduce moisture loss, shifting his weight subtly to maintain optimal temperature regulation. Around him, other camels began to struggle, their less disciplined drinking habits coming back to haunt them.

When the next oasis finally appeared, it was Zara who spoke first. "I understand now," she said quietly to Rashid. "About respect. About patience."

Rashid felt his own reserves hovering just above critical levels, but he maintained his measured pace as they approached the water. The younger camels rushed forward, crowding around the spring, but he caught Zara holding herself back, watching his example.

"The desert," she said, taking careful, measured steps beside him, "rewards those who respect its ways."

Rashid dipped his head in acknowledgment, feeling the first cool drops of water begin to replenish his depleted chambers. Like a perfectly engineered system coming back online, he felt his internal network beginning to recharge.

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