<blockquote>I’m thrown through a doorway into a room full of girls.
I use this word loosely. Most are past bleeding age, some with bellies that round like rising moons. They sit at a large table in the middle of the room, dressed in matching gray smocks, identical white sashes tied around their waists. To my people, white is for funerals; the color seems fitting.
They watch as I hit the ground. Like me, they wear hobbles of strong, light chain.</blockquote>
