came in hard no warning, was on us in a biting swirl, a war party of shrieking grit. We still had the windscreen down and the canopy rolled up in the back, had to brake and fall out with hands cupped over our mouths and eyes. The dirt got in, burning anywhere it touched. I stumbled along the doors, got the canopy untied, had to keep my eyes pinched shut, dragged it over the seats. I got one side up and began working the clips around the jeep, scraped my knees open on the steel floor as I clambered in. Thomson had the screen up and I hooked the clamps over the glass, pushed the rods open to form the roof. And then we were both inside the flapping, screaming tent, running our fingers around the canvas to lock it in place, stuffing clothes and paper into any gap. When it was done we sat back in the gloom and listened to the storm. It blew so hard I thought the glass would etch white, a desert frost.
