As for the rest of us, we waited our turn. We were about fifty in number. It was only a matter of time. Some bright morning, a pale man would come and buy us and lead us away. We tried to imagine where they took us but, like our bodies, our imaginations were bound. We saw others of our people, accompanying pale ones to and fro—women with baskets upon their heads but no joy in their eyes, men tending horses and laying stones as if the men were mindless objects—and we knew, whatever this life, it would not be our lives. It would be our strength in service of their lives. Still, we chose to live, for in living, there was hope.

Rainy days were miserable. In our huddle, we shivered and tried to avoid cold streams falling from the shabby rooftop, but everywhere we moved, raindrops followed. We settled for a far, dark corner where only light mist and weaker streams drizzled upon us. Men spread themselves around women, shielding their bodies and their virtue. It was a small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless. We’d been unable to do this on the boat. Now, on land, we tried desperately to become what we once were—men of valor and stature. Women did their part, too. Whenever sickness crept in among us, they spoke it away, using their hands and voices as instruments of healing. It was the only reason we survived.

Day by day, others were sold off. Our hearts hurt so badly we rubbed our chests to keep from collapsing. At home, we’d never known loss like this. Certainly people died, but mostly elders. We were prepared for their transition. We’d been taught that it was the natural order of things. We even longed for details of the invisible realm. Elders warned us not to be anxious for such knowledge. We would know soon enough. When, rarely, a young person died, we understood that their work on earth was complete. It was a sad occasion, surely, especially when he or she was beloved, but still there was purpose in the movement so we understood. In that holding stall, we did not understand. People died each day and were dragged away like insignificant stones. It was not divinely right. It was not ordered by the heavens. It was not sanctioned by the ancestors. It couldn’t have been. There was no joy in the passing, no celebration of life, no clarity of who these souls were and why they’d been sent. Or why they’d survived at all. There was nothing but confusion. And our hearts, lying heavily in our chests, bore it all.