The dust hugged them. The storm whipped it up in their eyes – dust was where they were headed. The storm flossed it through one ear and out the other – dust was their playlist. There were three of them. They had names but that did not matter. They had genders but that did not matter. They were young but that did not help them.
Their parents were not there to hug them anymore. The oldest had a soulmate but she was gone too. Death was all that was left for them down south so they headed north. It was pointless; they were killed at the border.