Who cares if a thousand marched today; they were no more real to the rest of the population than the thousands who drowned in last year’s monsoons, or died in China’s famine, or were obliterated at Hiroshima. Their very numbers smeared them—“smeared,” she said, squinting through her glasses into Fifal’s dirty windshield—smeared them into meaninglessness. Their faces become a blur, their message a blot. One person is what is needed. One face. One story. “One,” she shouted. “One, one.”
