He moved slowly between the rows. He read names. Ages. Regiments. Dates. Eighteen. Twenty. Nineteen. Twenty-two. It was like looking at a catalogue of lives that had not had time to become properly heavy. Lives that never reached the belly that thickens, the eyes that tire, the small victories of everyday dignity. They stayed there, all of them, cut off at the point where the face has not yet had time to lose its shame.