Chapter 1
Three and a Half Months Ago
At ten p.m. sharp, the prerecorded bell echoed throughout the factory floor of Building 17. In the large room, workers leaned back from their assigned machines, muscles aching, minds numb. For those assigned to this particular building, it was their fingers that hurt the worst.
Gloria Ortega attempted to ball her hands in hopes of relieving some of the pain, but to no avail. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Her pain wasn’t going anywhere. Too much time pushing garment segments through the sewing machine as fast as possible to ensure she reached her daily quota.
Gloria and the workers around her remained in their chairs, waiting until they were cleared to leave. Silent. Eyes forward. No one wanting to see their own despair reflected in the face of another.
The two inspectors, who had arrived just before the bell, walked down the rows and stopped at each station, one in front and one in back. Given that there were about a hundred workers, it could be thirty minutes before the last station was checked and its worker allowed to return to the dorm for a cold dinner and much needed rest.
Gloria was in luck today. Her machine was in the front third of the building, only two rows away from where the inspector started. She watched him move from machine to machine, making sure quotas had been met. After each post-count nod, a worker would rise on shaky feet and make his or her way to the door. If a quota had not been met, the inspector would turn on the red light hanging above the offending station. The worker would have to spend however long it took to finish not only what was owed, but a penalty of an additional half of the daily quota. There had been days when Gloria returned to the factory in the morning to find a worker still at his station, finishing from the day before. He would then remain for the new shift, until he either completed his new quota or collapsed from exhaustion.
The inspector approached Gloria’s station. He was a wiry man who spoke Spanish with an accent she thought might be Colombian. He looked into her box of completed items and counted the pieces she’d sewn. It wasn’t her first box of the day, of course. As earlier ones were filled, they had been checked, the number of finished pieces marked on a sheet hanging in front of her machine, and a new box had replaced the old one.
Though nervous, Gloria kept her eyes downcast and her body frozen, showing as much deference to the inspector as possible while he rifled through her work. She knew she had made her quota a box earlier, but was well aware the inspectors weren’t always scrupulous. If they didn’t like a worker or were in a bad mood, they might turn on the red light anyway.
When the inspector finished, he cleared his throat, wrote a number on her sheet, and gave her the nod.
“Thank you, sir,” she said, but he’d already moved on.
Standing was a torture. Though only twenty-two years old, she felt three times that most days of late.
She and the others in the sewing room were allowed to stand and stretch for three minutes, two times a day—the first at ten a.m., then again at five p.m.—and given a fifteen-minute break at one p.m. for the bathroom and lunch.
Gloria had been in the chair for over five hours, and her hips and knees screamed at their sudden use. Not even her ankles escaped the feeling of abuse. They felt stiff and swollen as she shuffled toward the growing line of her colleagues at the exit.
The pathway outside Building 17 was enclosed by a chain-link cage, creating a corridor that, because of the rain pouring through the chain-link, had turned into a field of mud. The pathway was part of an intricate network of passages, with gates that could be opened onto other similarly caged routes, which were controlled at all times by the facilities management. The current pathway led directly to her dorm.
The large, barn-like building rang like a thousand agitated cymbals from the rain pelting its tin roof, the sound almost deafening as she entered. The evening table was set up near the door, and behind it stood one of the guards, watching to make sure each person took only one of the small plastic boxes containing the cold dinners, and one of the tiny cups containing two ibuprofen tablets.
Gloria knew even a full bottle of pills wouldn’t make a dent in her pain, but she took her tabs. On the way to her bunk—the bottom mattress of a stack of three near the middle of the room—she grabbed a tin cup from the stack next to the barrel of water and filled it. When she’d first arrived, she’d avoided drinking from the barrel as much as possible, sure that it would make her sick. But one could go without water for only so long, and since none of the others seemed to be affected, she’d given in. Now she drank at least two glasses every night, and another one in the morning.
As she neared her bunk she glanced over at Ricardo’s bed. His was the bottom of a stack the next row over. He was hunched over his food, rocking slightly as he ate. He did that sometimes. It was his way of “dealing with the shit,” he’d told her.
She hadn’t meant to become friends with him. She hadn’t wanted to become friends with anyone. One night, not long after her arrival, she’d woken up crying to find him leaning down next to her bed. She had jerked away, startled.
“It’s okay,” he said. “You called out in your sleep. I just wanted to make sure you were all right. Nightmare?” His Spanish sounded Central American, and later she would learn he was from Honduras.
Gloria had hesitated before nodding.
Ricardo smiled. “Don’t worry. We’ve all had them. But you should try not to be so loud. If a guard hears you, or someone complains, they’ll punish you. Trust me, you don’t want that.”
“I-I’ll try,” she whispered.
“Good. Get some sleep. Morning comes fast.”
“Thank you.”
Their interaction had lasted less than a minute, but it was the most warmth she’d felt from someone since…before. Since that night, their friendship had grown. Because conversation was discouraged, they’d steal moments when they could—on the walk to and from Building 17, when passing one another in the dorm, in the small area outside the toilets. Mostly it was at night when everyone else was asleep. Somehow, he always seemed to know when she was awake.
She’d said he reminded her of her uncle Hector.
“Is that good or bad?”
She’d smiled. “He’s my favorite.”
Ricardo was always there to cheer her up and make her forget—if only for a moment—the hell her life had become. In the past week, though, his mood had turned more somber than usual. Tonight, it was worse than ever. But she knew why.
“Hey,” she whispered. “Do you want my pills?”
At thirty-one, Ricardo was nine years her senior. He always seemed to be in more pain than she was, though he tried to hide it.
It took him a moment before he glanced at her, shook his head, and returned his attention to his food. There was no warmth in his eyes. No happy-to-see-you smile. No sense at all that he even knew who she was.
Before his mood had completely soured, he’d told her his son’s fifth birthday was approaching. Now, come midnight, it would be here. She wished she could think of something to say that would help him through his misery, but what did she know about being a parent?
She climbed onto her bunk and picked at the food she so desperately needed.
Thirty minutes later, when the lights went out, she lay there, exhausted but unable to sleep. Her thoughts were a jumble of half-sewn garments, fenced-in walkways, and crammed sleeping quarters, all wrapped in the odor of too many bodies in too small a space.
She could still hardly believe that answering an ad had led to this.
A little more than six months ago, she’d left her small hometown for a job in the larger city of Villahermosa. Unfortunately, five months later, her employer went out of business. She’d looked for another job, but no one wanted her. So, when she read the listing in the newspaper under REAL WORK REAL MONEY, she had called the number immediately and set up an interview with the recruiter, who would be in Villahermosa for only a few days.
When she arrived, she was escorted into the office of a smiling, middle-aged man in a nice business suit. He waved her into a chair on the other side of his desk, telling her his name was Señor Galvan.
He asked her a series of questions: her age (twenty-two), her health history (nothing wrong, as far as she knew), her relationship status (single).
He seemed particularly pleased with this last answer. “Never married?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you live with your family?”
“I rent my own room.”
“Why not with your family?”
“They live in Benito Juárez, not here.”
“I see. A big family?”
She shrugged. “Not so big. My mother, older sister, and younger brother.”
“And your father?”
She tried to keep her pain from her face as her heart clenched. “He died two years ago.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“So, you’re here all by yourself?”
“Yes. Is my living situation important?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
It was at this point he’d told her the job was not in Mexico, but in Costa Rica. A new resort hotel on an island in the gulf, just off the coast. “We are looking for candidates who we feel could be trained to become managers.”
This was so much better than anything she’d been hoping for, so of course she had jumped at the chance.
Ricardo had told her he’d answered a similar ad, though one for a high-paying construction project in Argentina.
Both had been lies.
While being transported to their work sites, they’d been drugged and woken here.
Wherever here was.
Everything they had with them—phone, jewelry, passports, even the clothes they’d been wearing—had been taken from them and replaced by the drab uniform they all now wore. They were told what was expected of them, and incidents of disobedience would not be tolerated. They were to do their job and nothing else.
For Gloria and Ricardo, that job was sewing garments from seven in the morning until ten at night, every day of the week.
Gloria heard someone slip out of bed and tiptoe toward the toilets. She raised her head.
The silhouette walking down the aisle looked like Ricardo. He seemed to be carrying something, which was odd since no one had anything.
Knowing he must be suffering, she quietly got up and followed him toward the back of the dorm. Ricardo always helped her when she was at her lowest. She wanted to do the same for him.
Rain continued to rattle the roof, almost drowning out the snores of the weary and the cries of the hopeless that arose here and there in the room.
Ricardo entered the toilets. She sneaked to the doorway and heard a thump, followed by a faucet coming on for a second before cutting off again. She decided it was safe to peer in.
The bathroom lights were on timers that allowed them to be on only during waking hours. But there was always enough light streaming in through the narrow windows that lined the top of the outer wall to let someone do their business.
Since there was no privacy here, she could see the whole room from where she was. But she didn’t see him anywhere.
Confused, she took a step inside.
A hand clamped on her mouth and an arm grabbed her around the chest. She struggled, but her weakened state didn’t allow her to put up much of a fight.
“Quiet,” Ricardo whispered.
When she realized it was him, she relaxed.
Slowly, he raised his hand off her mouth and released her. “What are you doing here?”
“I thought you might need…someone to talk to.”
He frowned. “I’m fine. Go back to bed.”
On the ground behind him was the bundle he’d been carrying. “What is that?”
“Nothing. Please, Gloria. You need sleep.”
She could see what looked like a bread roll sticking out of the top. “You’re…you’re going to try to escape, aren’t you?”
The look on his face was all the answer she needed.
“You can’t,” she said. “It’s impossible.” Her mind raced for words to make him stay. “They’ll…they’ll catch you. They’ll punish you. Ricardo, don’t.”
He closed his eyes, and she thought she had gotten through to him. But when he reopened them, his expression hardened. “I have to.”
“It’s too dangerous.”
“Someone needs to get out. Someone needs to find people who can help us.”
“Fine. But let it be someone else. Not you.”
He looked at the ground, blinking tears away. “I’m going.”
“Why?”
She could barely hear his response above the rain. “I promised him.”
His son.
“Ricardo, no. Please,” she said, knowing her plea would be useless but unable to stop herself.
He put a hand on her cheek and smiled. “I’ll get help. You’ll be home soon.”
She almost grabbed his hand, to never let him go, but she didn’t move.
“You can help me, if you want,” he said.
“Help?”
“Yes. Stand by the door, and if you see someone coming, tell me.”
She looked at the doorway, then back at him. “But how are you getting out? The windows are too small.”
He smiled again. “Will you do it?”
She wanted to scream no to make him change his mind. She knew it wouldn’t, though, so with a sigh, she said, “Okay.”
“Thank you. Don’t worry. You’ll see me again soon.”
She positioned herself inside the doorway, from where she could see the main route anyone would take to the toilets, and also what Ricardo was doing.
“Clear?” he whispered.
She nodded.
He walked to the sink in the far corner and carefully climbed onto it. Gloria was sure it would break from the wall, but it held. Ricardo reached up and pulled off one of the boards near the top of the wall. Behind the board was a narrow hole to the outside. If Ricardo believed he could crawl through it, he was crazy. And yet, that was exactly what he did. The months of limited rations had made him thinner than she realized.
There must have been something on the other side he could stand on, because after he was through, he leaned back in and grabbed the board from where he’d left it sticking up from the sink. He gave Gloria a smile, then raised the board and put it back in place.
She stood there in the doorway, staring at the empty bathroom, until she heard footsteps coming from the dorm.
A middle-aged woman shuffled past without even glancing at her. Good thing, too, or the woman might have seen the tears streaming down Gloria’s cheeks. Then again, the woman might have thought nothing of it. Everyone in the dorm cried.
* * *
The lights came on at six a.m. sharp.
Gloria doubted she’d had more than three hours of sleep, all bad. Every time she drifted off, she’d woken soon after, thinking Ricardo’s escape had been a bad dream. But all it took was a glance at his empty bunk to know the truth.
She joined the breakfast line out of habit, not hunger. As always, she was given two stale buns and three pieces of cheese. Occasionally they would receive a hard-boiled egg, too. Not today, though. She was tempted to give everything to someone else, but she knew her body needed it.
At 6:45 the bell clanged twice, and she and her dorm mates lined up at the exit. Five minutes later the door opened, and they began their walk to Building 17.
The storm had moved on, leaving a steamy, clear morning, the kind Gloria used to love. Now it was just another day, in what was becoming an infinite string of identical, endless days.
Not identical, she reminded herself. Ricardo wasn’t here today.
Within two minutes of leaving the building, a murmur arose from ahead. Gloria craned her neck and saw the turn to Building 17 closed off.
“Keep moving,” one of the guards who patrolled the top of the cages called down. More words followed in languages other than Spanish, for the prisoners who didn’t speak it.
The procession moved down a route Gloria had never taken before. Another two turns, and they came to a stop.
Again, she craned her neck to look ahead. A closed gate was keeping them from continuing. On the other side of the gate, people dressed similarly to her and her fellow workers were moving down a path perpendicular to her group’s.
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