With the van free of the sand, Mma Makutsi decided to start the engine. She did this with her foot pressed down hard on the accelerator pedal—she was no driver, really—and the engine raced in response. For the donkeys, yoked so closely to this unusual burden, this was a source of sudden alarm, and they responded by backing sharply against their restraining straps. One of them, the older one, stumbled, attempted to regain its footing, failed to do so and then collapsed.

The man gave a shout. “Turn the engine off, Mma! Turn it off!”

Mma Makutsi complied, her hands shooting up to her mouth in a gesture of horrified realisation. “Oh, Rra,” she cried. “I have killed your donkey.”

The man struggled with the straps that held the fallen donkey in the yoke. As he did so, the other donkey brayed suddenly, a mournful, broken sound. It took a few moments, but when the straps were released, the donkey sagged back into the sand, its chest heaving. It moved its head as if trying to get up, but then lowered it again and fixed the sky with a stare of reproach. Mma Makutsi, distraught over what she had done, was now joined by Mma Ramotswe. The donkey’s eyes, Mma Ramotswe found herself thinking, were so beautiful; flecked, almost golden, and rimmed with delicate black eyelashes. It was an incongruous thought—this admiration of the beauty of a creature that seemed to be on the point of death.

Mma Makutsi was now in tears. “Oh, Mma, what have I done?”

“It was an accident,” said Mma Ramotswe gently. “It was not your fault, Mma. You were not to know.”

The man, who had been bending over the donkey, now rose and walked over to his cart. He seemed to be curiously unconcerned by what had happened, simply saying, “He will get up. He will know we are going home now.”

He was right. The donkey now suddenly heaved a sigh and staggered to his feet.

“See, Mma,” said Mma Ramotswe. “No harm done.”

“He is very lazy,” snapped the man. “He is always doing this.”

“Maybe he is tired,” said Mma Ramotswe.

“Maybe,” said the man. “But I’m tired too, Mma. We are all tired.” He looked about him. “There is so much sand.”

She thought about what he said. Perhaps Mma Potokwane was tired too. Perhaps there were just too many orphans, just as there was too much sand. Perhaps she had had enough of helping. If that were true, then she wondered whether she should be seeking her out here, or whether she should leave her in peace. It would be easy to go back now and leave Mma Potokwane at her lands, but then she reminded herself that Mma Potokwane had never once spoken in the past about retiring or giving up. No, the defeatist Mma Potokwane was not the real Mma Potokwane. The real Mma Potokwane was a fighter.