It was terribly hot and his throat was parched. Both of which were par for the course, Alex thought wryly. Ever since he'd come to Morocco he'd been hot and thirsty, no matter how much he drank. And now he was stranded on the outskirts of town, his car's engine smoking. He thought it rather ironic that his car, of all things, would break down while he was doing research in anticipation of covering the first ever trans-Sahara car race. 'First ever' because the prince had promised it would not be the last. So he'd come and started following the route map, wanting to know the way as well as he could before he had to try to navigate the strange land while covering the race. It was sure to make his name with the newspapers. Right now though, the only thing he wanted a newspaper for was to fan himself. He'd opened the bonnet, burning his fingers in the process, but truth be told, he knew nothing of what went on under the hood of the automobile. And thus he was stranded where he was until someone came upon him. He'd already tried the three houses that clustered around the road, if you could call it that, and they had proven to be quite unhelpful. No running water, let alone telephones. H ...
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