When I was five, a severe drought struck my hometown, and the crops failed completely. All I remember is being hungry and seeing my mother's tears. My father sold me for half a sack of coarse rice and a few silver dollars. He told my mother, "Let her go. At least she'll have a chance to live."
1 In the ruined temple at the village entrance, a fat man with gold teeth looked me over like livestock. My father kept his head down and didn't dare look at me. My mother collapsed on the threshold as my father held her back. Her cries were hoarse and desperate. I didn't cry. My tears had long since run dry. I stared at that half-sack of rice, calculating how many days it would feed my little brother. The fat man lifted me onto a mule cart. Three or four other girls as gaunt and sallow as I was already sat aboard.
