We left the Uzbek-Kazakh border checkpoint and walked east.
We were swapping jokes to pass a hot afternoon. We joked our way right past the Walk’s next 100-mile mark. When I realized the mistake it was too late to return — we’d plodded on for six miles. A young railroad worker at the next village drove me back on a motorbike. His name was Sagun. He didn’t ask me one question about my presence in the desert. Nor about the journey. Nor about the strange choreography required to build a Milestone. It was as if he’d been hauling foreign pedestrians across the desolate Ustyurt Plateau his whole life. As if he’d run out of questions generally a long time ago.