It was just a door. Paint curling through the dust from the people-filled street. Minds on their own business. A ragged curtain covered the small opaque window. An innocuous end of terrace door. Receiving only junk mail which gathered, unsorted, on the floor. The only sorting done was of the girls. Shipped in like frightened cattle. The buyers slip in the back entrance, undisturbed. They examine and choose their merchandise. Payment on delivery to another dusty door.
