The milk.
The specific, warm, physical-pressure-forced, involuntary milk of a woman whose body had been running the production process since the last birth and had just received the specific, pressure-based, completely non-consensual request to produce.
The fat one saw it.
He pointed.
"Milk," he said, at the crowd, with the flat, present, business-announcement delivery of a man making a product feature clear.
Crowd sounds.
"She's wasted something on a husband and a whelp," the second man said, with the flat, mean, completely-comfortable-with-this-assessment delivery of someone who said things like this regularly and had not yet encountered meaningful resistance.
"Barely used," the first man said.
"Barely," the second agreed.
She was crying.
The specific, present, not-stopping, not-being-managed, completely-honest tears of a woman who was crying because she was in the situation she was in and the crying was the only thing available to her.
"My daughter—" she said.
