The next morning guards take you out of your cell. They shave your hair and put you in a fresh woven shift. The guards lead you out of the courthouse and put you in a wagon. Also in your wagon are people you know. The fat seamstress, the old baker, a brick-layer, a midwife, a lawyer. You do not talk to each other.
The wagon is pulled out of the town to the hill of judgment. The crowd thronging the way yells insults and curses at you. You reach the hill where many fires have already raged. The smoky air reeks of burnt flesh.
You are pulled out of the wagon. They tie you and the others to stakes. They pile up fresh kindling at your feet.