The next day, the horizon had yet to show the first pale light of dawn.
Tumo's figure had already shattered the last stillness before daybreak, with four dark silhouettes following close behind him.
The five men charged toward the saline wasteland like a pack of wolves that had caught the scent of blood.
There were no shouts, no conversations, only the dull thuds of shovels biting into hard earth, one after another.
The sun rose, stretching their shadows long. Some early-rising settlers rubbed their sleepy eyes, caught sight of this strange scene, and stopped in their tracks.
"Look, isn't that Tumo? Has he gone mad?"
"No idea. What are they in such a hurry to get? Surely not the sugar? Hahahaha!"
A man leaned against a wall, picking his teeth, his face full of disdain.
"See? I told you that Tumo wasn't right in the head. What do we break our backs digging for? To fill our bellies! To have something thick to wear in winter! But him? He's ready to work himself to death for a little something sweet. Stupid. Absolutely stupid!"
"We should just stick to trading for wool sweaters. Now that's something worthwhile."
The people beside him nodded in agreement, their words carrying the smug superiority of those who believed they alone knew better.
The taunts and sneers drifted across the wasteland on the morning breeze.
Tumo's shovel never paused. Sweat ran down his cheeks and struck the dust at his feet, evaporating in an instant.
His brother and his friends all kept their heads down, shutting out every sound around them.
Their duties were clearly divided: two dug, two carried stones, and one drank water from a coarse earthenware bowl, resting briefly before immediately swapping places with another.
There were no complaints, no doubts about the