When his turn comes, even the auctioneer clears his throat like he’s about to say a prayer he doesn’t believe in. “Nahuel Itzcóatl,” he announces, and the name lands heavy, unlike the casual names tossed for the others. “Twenty-eight, strong, healthy, from Oaxaca, knows field work… and other things.” The auctioneer’s tone is careful, the way men speak when they want to warn without being blamed for warning. The starting price is insultingly low, so low it makes your face go hot with shame on behalf of everyone listening. A few men snort, as if they’ve been handed a joke. Your hand rises before you decide, and the movement feels both reckless and inevitable. Silence follows, wide and clean, as no one counters you. The hammer falls with a sharp crack that makes your shoulders tense, and you realize you have just made yourself the only one willing to claim what others refuse.
“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.
