Tiny windows, like those in our jail cells, offer a meager glimpse into the outside world. Bright, white fluorescent light radiates from the ceiling, making me feel like I’m in some kind of laboratory, rather than a workshop. Cool air circulates the room, but from the lingering scent of sweat, I expect the space will heat up soon enough.
Looking around, not knowing what to do, I notice Byron Ashworth waiting at the head of the room.
“Ms. Harris, over here,” he says, pointing to a desk. I do as told, trying to forget the creepy grin on his face. When I take my seat, I discover the equipment in front of me is an old sewing machine.
“Cuff yourself, Quinn,” Byron adds.
I almost ask what he’s talking about, but then I find a pair of manacles attached to the desk by a chain. All around me, the other girls are locking the cuffs around their wrists. Holding back a sob, I do the same, refusing to look at Byron.
“Ladies, I have an announcement,” he says, raising his voice to carry throughout the room. He picks up a white shirt from a stack of them on a nearby table. Holding it out and looking at it with a surprising amount of pride, I see it reads “Liberty. Family. Weaponry.” Accompanying each word are red outlines: a waving flag, figures of adults and children, and a machine gun. When he turns it around, it says “Made in America” in big, bold letters on the back.
“Aren’t these nice?” Byron asks. “I think they are, and so do Congressman Prescott’s constituents. We’ve had an unexpected surge in demand, and have to get our inventory numbers back up. So, today’s quota will be eight-hundred units.”
Faces fall around me; a few even mutter quiet curses. Clearly that’s a lot.
“I understand that’s a major increase,” Byron says. “Take it as a compliment — you’re doing great work. And, with Ms. Harris here you have a new coworker to help. Now get to work.”
Jumping into action immediately, they begin to cut fabric, sew and screen press the T-shirts. My jaw hangs loose watching them work: like an oiled machine, they move quickly, and with purpose. I’ve never seen a sweatshop before, but this must be what it’s like.
Somewhere I hear music, some soft pop I can almost recognize, but the hive of activity drowns it out. The guards wander up and down the rows, watching the women work. Byron leaves, and as he exits Reed steps inside.
His eyes immediately hone in on me, crossing his arms in front of his chest. My heart pounds as he stares, as focused on me as I am on him, so I don’t hear one of the other guards approaching me from behind.
“Sit your ass down and get to fucking work,” he snarls, spinning me around to face him. It’s the ugly, balding one.
“Please,” I say, shaking my head and pointing to the sewing machine. “I’ve never used one of these, I don’t know how.”
The guard shrugs. “Figure it out.”
“How?” I snap, tears starting to sting my eyes. “I don’t see any instructions!”
“Oh, for fuck sake, don’t start crying,” he says. “Someone show her what to do.”
“They’re not supposed to talk to her,” Reed calls out from across the room as he strides toward us. “Leave her be, Corbin. Resume your patrol.”
The ugly guard nods at Reed and moves along.
“Ms. Harris, take a seat,” says Reed.
“And do what?”
Around us, many of the girls have stopped working so they can listen to our exchange.
“That’s up to you,” he replies. “You’re going to be here for the next twelve hours.” He clears his throat, and whistles loudly to get everyone’s attention. “You all know the rules. If you don’t make quota, all of you pay. If you show Quinn what to do, she can help with the work. But no one is supposed to talk to her, or they’ll be punished. This is a predicament, isn’t it? Do whatever you like.”
Reed winks at me, then turns and walks back.
I spin around on my feet, looking to the other women, but they bury themselves in their work, rather than face me. “Really?” I say. “No one’s going to help?” I could cry again, but I force myself to take a deep breath instead. “Fine.” I take my seat and flatten my hands on the table. “You bitches better work hard, I don’t want to get whipped again.”
Reed lets out a sharp laugh. The women exchange looks between each other, many of them turning to the tattooed woman I saw across from my cell.
Teeth bared and nostrils flaring, she sneers at me, then yells, “Fuck her. Work faster.”
Shit.
I thought one of them would come forward. Would the punishment for talking to me really be that bad? Maybe. If so, I hate to imagine it. They could just be more confident that they can get the work done in time — I hope so, for their sake, despite what I said. I’ve been here a day, and the people who run this place hate me; the last thing I wanted to do was alienate the only people who might actually feel sorry for me, who might be able to help me.
Without them, I’m on my own.