feet going numb in the snow, then gradually my calves, then the backs of my knees. And when I lift my head to look once more, I am standing in front of the butcher’s stall, a blizzard of feathers flying in circles around me from the dead, plucked hens the butcher’s wife has laid out before her. The horse falls, a crumpled heap in my arms. Before I can respond, the butcher seizes it from inside the jaw and drags it off back behind his stall where the knives are kept. I glance over my shoulder – the horse salesman is standing there, he is paralyzed with fear at what might come next. From behind the stall a cleaver falls three times, with swift and decisive strokes.
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