“DON’T TOUCH HIM,” THEY WARNED YOU. YOU BOUGHT HIM ANYWAY… AND THAT NIGHT YOU LEARNED WHY MEN WOULD RATHER BURN THEIR SILVER THAN KEEP HIM CLOSE.

They told you to buy three, because three is what a woman is supposed to do when men stop doing it for her. Your administrators spoke in numbers, pretending numbers are clean, pretending the ink isn’t mixed with hunger and blood. They said one worker won’t save you, and they were right, but they didn’t know what you know about your husband’s secrets. Don Aurelio’s debts were not honest debts, not the kind paid back with patience and prayer. They were traps hidden in contracts, signatures that looked like his but weren’t, promises made to people who smile while they sharpen knives. Eight months ago you buried him, and the town watched, and the town measured how long it would take you to collapse. Now they watch you again, expecting you to bargain, to flinch, to accept your place. You tell yourself you’re here for the hacienda, not for the spectacle, but the spectacle is here for you. The square is loud with bargaining, yet the corner by the auction platform has an uncomfortable hush, like even cruelty has a limit for politeness.