Page 5 of Factory Controller

Isabella closes her mouth and stands again.

“I guess I still need to get a room ready for you,” she says as she walks out of her office.

“Perfect,” I say, looking back at my notes. “How much time do you need? Let me know when it’s ready, please.”

She doesn’t answer. Or maybe she nodded while I wasn’t looking. I don’t really care.

As soon as the door closes behind her, I pore over the invoices and try to match them to expenditures on her Excel sheets, to no avail. This might be worse than I thought.

More than an hour passes, and Isabella doesn’t return.

Needing to stretch my legs, I step outside to take a break. I gave up tobacco years ago, so now I only smoke clove cigarettes. I was told that it would help curb my nicotine cravings. It doesn’t, but the ritual does give me time to think.

As I smoke, I stroll along the building, not daring to walk away from it.

A scuffling noise draws my attention to an alley right behind the mission. A dark figure stands there, murky and sinister in appearance.

“Hey, lady,” the figure says in broken English. “I’ve got something for you.”

I turn to face the shadow-drenched figure, arranging my clove cigarette so it hangs between my index and ring fingers. I’m not above putting it out in someone’s eye if I have to.

“Relax, lady.” A skinny, bare chested boy of about twelve or thirteen steps into view, his hands splayed wide. “Not trying to rob you. Not taking your money. Giving you money.”

He reaches into his muddy, patched up blue jeans and withdrew a wad of Brazilian reals, offering them up to me. “You take this money, and then bring me to America.”

I relax, taking another puff from my cigarette and sighing. “Sorry, kid. It takes a lot more than just money to get you into America. Money definitely helps, but you’ll need several times what you have here just to hire an immigration lawyer.”

The boy’s face falls. “So, you can’t get me to America?”

“I’m afraid not, sorry.” I cock my head to the side. “Why are you so eager to get to the United States, um…what’s your name?”

“Aberto,” he thumps his chest. “I’m one of the People, but my mother thinks speaking good English and using a Spanish name make people hire me easier. I have to get to America so I can talk to Anderson Cooper.”

I repress a chuckle, not wanting to insult the boy’s sincerity. “Why would you want to talk to him?”

“He goes around the world to places where bad things happen and points it out. I want him to come here, to Ipixuna.”

I’m rapt with attention now.

“What bad thing is happening around here, Aberto?”

“People go missing; you know, kids. The prettiest girls and young women, the strongest boys and teens. They got my sister a month ago. That’s why I need Anderson Cooper.”

I consider Aberto for a long moment. His dark-eyed face seems haunted. I don’t think he’s lying to me. He has a swath of white paint along the sellion of his wide nose, and the bowl haircut popular with the indigenous tribes. My heart instantly goes out to him. How desperate must he be to ask for help from a total stranger?

“Aberto, I’m not going to lie to you. People like Anderson Cooper aren’t going to get involved unless we have proof.”

His eyes narrow. “Why? I’ve seen white men carrying off kids. Isn’t my word enough? Why do we need proof?”

“Because that’s just the way it works.” I rub my eyes. It’s been a long day, and a longer evening. “Look, Aberto. I’m very tired. I wish I could help you, but I just can’t.”

I stuff the wad of reals back into his hand and head back toward the office. Aberto rushes after me, sputtering.

“Wait. Don’t go, please. I need your help.”

“I can’t help you, Aberto.”

He’s beyond my help. It’s an unfathomably callous thing to say, but it’s true. I crush out the butt of my cigarette to ensure it’s extinguished and flick it into an overflowing rubbish bin.

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