Fiction | July 08, 2026

The Dry Season 

“You’re lucky,” the director said. “In another week or two, I doubt the road will be open.” 

His passenger sat upright beside him, watching the passing terrain. It reminded her of a church trip she had taken to southern California in high school, the savanna an undulation of rolling hills and scrubby trees, but redder. Her excitement derived not from the terrain but from impatience to get to what was to come.  

The director said, “The road floods intermittently at first, and not for its entire length, but once the rains begin in earnest, it won’t be reliably passable until late October. “Last week, the rain knocked the dust down and compacted the ground. This is as ideal a driving condition as we could hope for. Good your people sorted out the visa issue when they did.” 

She found his accent comical, an accent she associated with English period television drama. Since arriving in country, she had heard a wealth of accents. The NGOs were a cosmopolitan mix of Western Europeans: French, German, Italian, and a few white South Africans she had initially mistaken for English. 

The Land Rover shuddered as they hit a series of deep ruts. A religious medal jumped on a cord from the rearview mirror and pinged against the windshield.  

“Christ!” he said. Then he grinned. “Not as compacted as one would like.” Then, “Do you prefer to be called Hannah, or Hannah Lynne, or something else?” 

“I was only called Hannah Lynne when my parents were angry with me.” 

“Then I shall call you Hannah unless I’m cross with you.” 

“Are you Catholic?” she asked, indicating the medal. 

“Not anything, really. Church of England, I suppose. But St. Christopher keeps the engine running and the wheels in alignment.” 

They stopped to let an old man and a shirtless boy coax a ragged train of cattle across the road. Both herders and cattle moved with the same patient gait, the boy tapping the cattle with a stick, the old man clicking encouragement. 

“When were you licensed?” 

“Four years ago.”  

“And you worked in a hospital ER?” 

 “One year in med-surg after Georgia Southern, then three in ER. Both at Memorial Health in Savannah.” 

The director turned from the road to look at her. He was younger than his manner suggested. Late thirties at most. Very blue eyes. 

“Forgive me. I don’t mean to interrogate. I look after four mission clinics, and I wish we had three more like you.” The last of the cattle passed, and he put the car in gear again. “I will check in when possible, but there will be times when access is challenging, so you will need to use best judgement depending on the situation.” 

“Of course.” 

“Well done, then.”