She cries through the whistling of the crowd, through the dagger jab into the animal's spine, through its drag off to the slaughterhouse.
The crowd chants, Vayate! Vayate!-tossing seat cushions up and out, in high arcs, to the ring below.
She does not stop crying until two men in bright white overalls begin to rake the dirt clean.
Only then does she reach up and wipe her face dry.