The door shuts behind her. At least I get to change back in private. It’s small things I find to appreciate here.
I pull the skirt down and step out, one foot still inside when I hear the low voices outside. Without thinking I hop onto the crate and strain to the ledge. I’m still naked, the concrete radiating cold against my bare skin.
“What did you think?”
“The place is a dump,” replies a deep voice. Sebastian.
“It’s a dump that makes money. Their profits are impressive for such a small operation. I’m not sure how they’re doing it.”
“Which means you don’t want to know.”
“Even if there are problems, we could probably find a buyer. At least sell off the parts.”
“It’s not worth the liability. I’d rather burn it to the ground.”
“But—”
“Shut it down.”
CHAPTER FOUR
My hands are shaking as I feed the fabric into the ancient sewing machine. The loud whir is a familiar comfort. As long as I’m working, no one yells at me. No one hits me. Even with the comforting rhythm of the machine, I can’t calm down.
Over the mechanical roar, echoing inside my head, I can still hear Sebastian’s words. He wants to close this place. No, he wants to burn it to the ground.
This is more than a sweatshop. It’s home.
The thread pulls taut, forming a perfect row of stitches over the blue floral fabric. It’s a pretty sundress, the kind I imagine a woman wearing at a picnic. She’s in a park with miles of deep green grass. A man strolls behind her, holding a heavy wicker basket full of wine and cheese.
That’s someone else’s life, just like this will be someone else’s dress.
What will happen to us if they burn this place? Will they leave us inside? A chill runs down my spine. It would solve the liability problem.
Tia corners me at the end of the day, when all the fabrics have been put away and soup has been served for dinner. “Who were those men?” she whispers. “What did they want?”
She’s one of the only women who speaks fluent English. It’s just her and me, really. The other women sit quietly or speak in Spanish when Mercedes doesn’t see. Margo has already left for the day. No doubt Jorge is standing guard at the door again.
“It was some kind of inspection. They had me act like a secretary.”
Tia’s forehead creases into deep lines of worry. “What does it mean?”
I hesitate, because I don’t want her to be afraid. Like I’m afraid. But, in the end, I can’t keep this to myself. Maybe that makes me weak. “I think they want to close the business.”
Her eyes go wide. She crosses herself, muttering for God to protect us.
My heart pounds, and I realize I was hoping she’d tell me everything would be fine. That there’s no way the place would shut down, or that if it did, the women would be all right. I’m desperate for reassurance. “They won’t do it, though, right? Mercedes and Margo, they won’t let them.”
“Mercedes and Margo are foxes, shrewd and sharp. The men who walked through the shop earlier are lions, and even foxes bow before them.”
“Where will we go?”
Tia’s smile is small. “The lions do not care what happens to the mice.”
“Maybe they’ll sell us.” Except I already know that won’t happen.
At least we can sell off the parts.
It’s not worth the liability. I’d rather burn it to the ground.
“It’s not true,” I say quietly. “It’s not true that lions never care.”
She raises her eyebrow. “You’re young. Of course you believe that.”
“I’m not that young.” She still thinks of me as the twelve-year-old girl, crying in her arms. It’s been seven years. I’m a woman now, even though I don’t know the things other women here do. About men. About sex. Even though I never want to learn, if men are like Sebastian Conti. Cold. Uncaring.
Her mouth draws tight. “In some ways, you’re wise. But in other ways…you haven’t had a chance to grow up.”
My stomach clenches with grief, with anger. I take a deep breath. Anger won’t help Tia and the other women. “My father had a story about a lion and a mouse.”
Tia drinks her soup, eyes on the door. We can see Jorge standing outside, playing on his phone. The line of his shirt lifts above his gun. In a few minutes he’ll come inside to lock us in the rooms for the night. Sometimes I imagine us rushing him. We could overtake one person, couldn’t we?
Not before Jorge got off a few rounds.
I’d rather live in captivity than sacrifice innocent women. That wouldn’t be freedom.
My father’s presence sits in the room with me, raised by Tia’s words. I remember the stories he used to tell me, murmuring beside my plush pink bed until I drifted to sleep. That spill from my lips now, as familiar as a prayer. “One day a mouse grew curious, and he wandered into the lion’s den.”
