“What are you doing there? You’re supposed to be with the others,” a man behind Mira barked, and, terrified, she joined the other women in the ballroom. No one appeared to notice that she was dressed differently than them, or they didn’t care. Unlike the others, Mira focused on the white men in the room. They all wore black masks that covered their faces. They stood at the doorway, their heads turned out toward the hall, and waited in a cluster as one by one they were searched. Their weapons, if they had any, were taken, exchanged for a paper stub that the men stuffed in their pockets. After they were searched, they entered the ballroom to view the women on display.

The women ignored Mira completely. She heard sniffling, and behind her was a young girl, barely a teenager. Tears fell down her face and she reached a hand to wipe them away, to hide best her emotion, but the act only caused her to cry harder, until she was choking down sobs.

“Hush up,” a black woman standing near her called. The woman was close to Mira’s age. She was tall; the fabric barely covered her muscular legs. The woman’s brown eyes were wide, a look of warning to the girl but also to Mira, and she quieted.

Men gathered, soon filling the room with their pants of want. She stared at the black masks that covered their faces, but these weren’t made of fabric. When the men got close, Mira noticed they were made of some other material she couldn’t discern, fashioned into a mask. They’d been painted black and a ribbon had been pulled through a hole on each side so the wearer could tie the mask on. The men filed into the room, walking the circumference as they observed each of the women. Mira could not see their faces but she recognized the look in their eyes as their gazes passed over woman to woman. It was a look of entitled desire, of a man who would take without fear of retribution or reprisal. These were men who wanted, and what they wanted was these women, and they knew they would get what they wanted.