and the sound of my native language—hell, just being able to understand someone—is so welcome that I’d cry if I had tear ducts left. “They’re gone.” “They’re gone? That’s all you have to say about it?” The one man sounds incredulous, and I catch myself fascinated by the way his tongue caresses the words. He says them strangely, as if English—or anything human—isn’t his first language, and it probably isn’t. I wonder if he’s alien, too. “Just as calm as anything? They’re gone? They’re your eyes.” I want to pour my heart out. I want to say I know they’re gone. I wasn’t a good slave and so they
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