"It is an omen," the old man said, pointing at the sky. Arbin didn't like the colour either. Redder than usual, it looked as if someone had taken a knife to the clouds and sliced them open. Blood oozed from the open wound and dripped upon the earth, turning the cracked barren soil around them burnt orange. "If we don't leave," the old man continued. "We will be punished by the Protector." Arbin swallowed. If the Protector turned upon them they were surely doomed. But to leave? But where would they go? This had been their home for as long as he remembered. It was true, the earth was dry. Even the goats struggled to find food. "But where shall we go, Grandfather?" he asked. The old man shrugged. "I don't know, boy. We must follow the path of the old river. Perhaps we will find water. Perhaps, not. But if we do not go soon, it will be our blood that rains upon the earth. The mud will be thick with it. Mark my words." Arbin's mother shook her head. “Stop scaring the boy, father,” she says. “I have seen the forecast on my iPhone. It rains tomorrow.”