There is a place, hidden among the sweeping sandy swaths of southern desert, where all you can see is red. From above, it’s a carpet of crimson, but as you lean closer, you see that it’s not one singular sheet of color, but rows upon rows of distinct red dots. Thousands of them. All of them nearly identical. Most of them silent and still. Some occasionally vibrating with movement. Like a wild field of poppies. Except it’s nothing like that. Because the little red dots are not flowers, but people. People who journeyed many miles to get here. People who came here to sleep.
