The floor trembles beneath my hooves. Not from thunder. Not from a storm. From them. The line moves forward one reluctant step at a time. Iron rails press against my sides. The air tastes wrong here. Sharp. Bitter. Like old metal and fear baked into concrete. The others know. No one taught us. No one had to. The old cow ahead of me hasn't made a sound for hours. She simply stares forward with wide, glassy eyes, watching whatever waits around the corner. Every so often she shivers. Every so often the line moves. And she moves with it. I try not to. The gate behind me slams shut. The sound echoes through my bones. I remember grass. I remember sunlight warming my back. I remember rain. Mud. The buzzing of flies. Small things. Beautiful things. They feel impossibly far away now. A memory from another creature's life. The corridor narrows. The smell grows stronger. The old cow disappears around the bend. For a moment there is silence. Then a noise. A mechanical hiss. A heavy thud. And nothing. The line moves again. Something ancient and animal inside me begins to scream. Not with sound. With certainty. This is the end. Not a predator's chase. Not a wolf's teeth. No chance to run. No struggle beneath the stars. Just walls. Just machinery. Just inevitability. The humans stand beyond the rails, their faces unreadable. To them we are numbers moving down a ledger. Weight. Inventory. The line moves. The corner approaches. My legs shake. I don't want to see what waits there. Yet I already know. The old cow knew. The calf that vanished last season knew. Every frightened eye in this corridor knows. The world grows smaller with every step. The sky is gone. The grass is gone. Soon, I will be gone too. The line moves forward. And so do I. Because there is nowhere else left to go.
