The damp, stagnant air clinging to the mud of my pen changes direction. I open one eye and see him. Framed by the light of the open barn door and bright world behind it, the Man begins to amble towards the gate. He is holding something. Others notice too.

At once, there is noise and movement — how long has it been since either occurred? Hours? Days? I do not know, nor do I care: the Man is almost here.

We are pressed together now - fighting for a spot at the trough and baying for him to see us. Crying. Squealing. The heat rises and the once moving air stills as it is stolen from me by my neighbors. I cannot breathe.

At once, the slop I crave is poured - for one, for all - finally. My snout descends, and time stands still. I am free.

I do not notice the distant thumps and squelching of mud as the Man drew nearer, for I am sated. I do not notice the cold, wet steel press up against the side of my head, for I am sated. I do not notice the captive bolt as it enters my skull, for I am sated.