Language may divide us, but a cry of agony is universal.

In the dense, putrid air that consumed us on that day, we all communicated with perfect clarity.

A grown man howled in pain as he dropped to the ground, clutching his abdomen. A blood-curdling scream echoed from a small child as she covered her ears. Another knelt on all fours, bawling as blood and bile sputtered from between his lips. A mother wailed as she clutched the hollow shell of her child’s body.

We hollered hopelessly. Perhaps we would be able to hold our loved ones in our arms one last time. Perhaps our gods would hear our prayers and save us from certain death, despite the chaos of disease decimating everything around us. Perhaps our bellowing would distract us from our overwhelming fear of death.

The cacophony of cries saturated the atmosphere. Suffering was omnipresent. Agony was inescapable. Screams were conclusive.

We were the same: all human, all hurting, all helpless. We were strangers, and yet we knew each other more profoundly than our own kin ever had. We were vulnerable. We were together. We were understood. We were diseased. We were dead. But at least we weren't alone.

Words may have formerly failed us, but our cries of agony united us.

Seven days. That’s all that remains. I know it. They know it. We all know it.

We don’t mention it. Not explicitly. But we venture to fix it.

On the first day, we reach the traffic of the intersection, noticing the glaring neon sign that advises us not to cross. The man in front of me looks briefly from side to side. He steps forward. We step forward. He is a shepherd. We are sheep.

On the second day, we sit in the boardroom in stale air under fluorescent lights. We make plans to invoke change. We agree to abandon people and belongings that don’t bring us joy. We agree they are toxic. We agree they are holding us back. Out loud, we agree.

On the third day, we leave the city smog. The sun scorches the earth beneath our feet. We say we enjoy the warm weather. We suffocate in the humidity. We continue walking.

On the fourth day, we march mindlessly, passing blindly by hurricanes and fires that roar miles away. We feel the wind’s force and the flames’ heat, but they have no significant effect on our path. We ignore them, and soon, we forget them.

On the fifth day, we admire the stars in the sky. What natural beauty this world has, we say. Beauty we can only see away from city lights. We are going the right way.

On the sixth day, we see mountains on the horizon. Trees gather at their base, the canopy covered in snow. We sense the life that awaits. We sense a shadow looming behind us.

On the seventh day, we reach our destination. We hear the rustling of the leaves in the wind. We feel the warmth of the sun above. The rustling turns to whipping. The warmth begins to burn. The fires and hurricanes we left behind have overtaken us. We don’t look at each other. Out loud, we express fear. But fear indicates hope. Silently, we knew there never was hope.

Seven days. That’s all that remained. I knew it. They knew it. We all knew it.

We didn’t mention it. But we pretended we could fix it.