trip over something, maybe a rock. I get back up, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in my knee.
A few hours later and I have given up. I have seen no signs of life that I can eat. I turn
around, but then I realize I cannot remember which way I came. A feeling of panic is rising up
inside of me. I decide to try and use reasoning to the best of my ability, but fail. By now I have
truly given up. I trip over again, only this time I find myself unable to get up. Weeks of starvation
have torn away at my small body, leaving little energy to spare. The moon shines down on my
face, reminding me of my name. Sarangerel. It means moonbeam in Mongolian. I have always had
a fascination with the moon, and found it so beautiful. So did Mother. That’s why she named me
Sarangerel. I shut my eyes and have a feeling that this is the last time I will do that. Everything is
fading away, leaving me with one last thought:
In lands far away, do they have a cure for death?
