Choke Point

Maja does exactly as her mother has instructed. When she leaves the house—always in the thick of rush hour—she heads away from the shop, not toward it. Her mother may not think she understands, but she does. The visit the afternoon before has so rattled her mother that, judging by her sunken eyes and irritability, she didn’t sleep all night. Kneeling, she held Maja by the shoulders and looked her directly in the eye, detailing the route she was to take, requiring her daughter to repeat it twice.

There was no choice but for Maja to report to work. Being discovered in school instead of home sick had brought down the hammer of discipline on all her workmates. A single child misbehaving meant hell for all, and this week it was Maja’s hell brought upon them.

To lead reporters to the shop would be much worse. Her mother might be killed. She might be put into the van that she has told no one about, including her mother. The girls driven away in the van never return.

Eight blocks north, she turns left at the intersection. Three blocks west, another left. She crosses the street to the opposite sidewalk and goes six blocks. On and on, exactly as her mother told her. Finally, she makes it to the canal. She takes a moment before crossing a dirt field and approaching the side door of a concrete building. Once inside, she crosses the oversized garage where someone had long ago built windows. One last door. She stops and knocks. A man’s scruffy face peers out. She’s admitted.

There are twelve stations. Three to six girls per rug squat on the floor alongside the work. A photo of the project is taped nearby where all can see it. Another, laminated in plastic, circulates hand-to-hand as needed. Some use a coat or sweater as a mat. Most are barefoot. The residents are identified by a ring of irritation or pus above the ankle, some rings worse than others. Maja has never spoken a word to any of them, but they know the hand signals—may have invented them for all she knows.

Overcome by the smell of wool and the unpleasant odor of men, she heads to her place and sits, feeling the weight of eyes upon her from the watchers and hoping she doesn’t look as guilty as she feels. Light floods in through high glass panes. The electricity works—the men make tea—but the lights are never used. Over half the bulbs are missing.

She and the other girls have a secret: a crude language spoken with their blurring hands. Barred from speaking, the girls use the sign language to communicate basic needs and alarms.

Maja is directed by a coworker to check out the same resident who was recently beaten severely after disappearing for a day. She had run away, presumably because of the infection from the ring. The sore began to smell disgusting, and when she returned, it looked worlds better, though her body was worse for wear. They are careful to never hit the girls in the face. They hammer the bottoms of their feet; pull their hair; pour salt or lemon juice into their eyes. They strip them naked and dunk them in cold water and tell them the horrible things they are going to do to them. It’s all talk, and the girls know this, but it’s impossible not to believe it.

The sick girl’s ring wound is bandaged, but there’s no hiding how bad it is. Maja can see it in her wan complexion, the lifelessness in her eyes, the slow speed with which she knots. The other girls are working to make up for her limitation; they’ve crowded next to her to hide her hands from the watchers.

Maja sees the shop differently today. She resents the reporter’s visit. Why it should look any different is beyond her, but it does. The residents, especially. The reminder that those entering the van alone never return. Of the strict rules and harsh consequences when violated. Of her missing school for this. Of her mother’s paranoia sending her off this morning.

She flashes a signal: Bad?

Her coworker returns it: Yes. Trouble. You?

Maja signals. It dawns on her: Me. This place. The sick girl.

The sound of the van’s engine turning over resonates through all the girls. No one looks up, but they all tense. The timing is wrong. The van is used only at the start and end of the day to transport the residents from wherever they’re kept. If it’s being used at this time, it’s to remove one or more of them.

Maja can’t breathe. Her limbs are frozen.

A watcher crosses through the stations, heading directly for her.