“We could’ve taken them.” The more I think it over, the more my dismay grows. Every year we let them herd us into their killing machine. Every year they pay no price for the slaughter. They just throw a big party and box up our bodies like presents for our families to open back home. “We could’ve at least done some damage,” I tell Ringina. “At least a little. Possibly a considerable amount,” someone says behind me. I turn to see Plutarch. He waves his camera crew over to record the knife training, but his attention stays on me. “The question is, why didn’t you?”
