Looking back at the crowd, she did not see her aunt. In the field where the market had been, chaos prevailed: trampled fruits, smashed jars of pickles, mounds of white noodles souring in the sun. The butcher’s table had been turned upside down, pink heaps of innards and meat scattered in the grass, the hog’s head on its side with its beady eyes seeming to laugh at the mess. Cawing blackbirds descended on the remains, picking through the spoils, brazen like scavenging dogs. The convoy returned the way it had come, kicking up a cloud of dust.
