So we sat and endured. Sometimes we touched each other lovingly. Such was never rejected. We rubbed hands, heads, feet, arms, and backs until at least some comfort was achieved. We knew only each other’s names, but it didn’t matter. We shared fates, so other details seemed unimportant. We didn’t care about favorite colors or the number of rings in one’s ear. What would’ve been the use of such knowledge? What we knew was that we were alone. We were all we had. So, through touch, nods, and talking eyes we encouraged each other to hold on until we discovered what this life might bring.

This was not the end. There would be another day.

*   *   *

Fifty dwindled to forty. Horses and wagons carried them away daily as we wailed. Not until then did we know that some pain dwells in wretched silence. It’s called Agony. It finds a resting place in the soul and takes residence as if it belongs there. And it never leaves. It lingers like part of the body itself. It makes room for itself, and settles in like an invisible disease, moving about at will, reminding the host of its deadly presence. If, per chance, one forgets its existence, Memory causes Agony to live again. Its weight is unbearable, although it has no physical substance. It can lie dormant anywhere it chooses then suddenly resurrect, bringing the carrier to his knees. It has no cure. Even time has no effect. Indeed, it grows over time, becoming more excruciating by the day. The only way to survive Agony is to coexist with it. And, so, with each person sold, we crumbled to the earth and wept as Agony eased into our souls. Then we rose and returned to the stall as if we’d simply had a nightmare. We could have seemed divided in our affections, but we were not. Had we given Agony full reign over our spirits we would’ve died instantly. But we wanted to live, so we gave Agony its due, then let it settle and wait for another day.