Suoli was predictably indifferent . From morning to night , Suoli worked shifts on the mechanized saw that slit the throats of chickens , funneling their blood into gently sloshing barrels . She was able to regard piles of offal with composure , even fondness , as if examining inflated party balloons . “ Mei is probably dead ,” she had exhaled , before proceeding to brush her teeth .
The only one obviously distressed about Mei was Tianmu , who was admittedly in a constant state of panic . Tianmu flinched at every noise - doors slamming , pipes gurgling , lighters releasing flame . “ It ’ s all a conspiracy ,” she would repeat to whoever accidentally made eye contact with her . She always stood alone during breaks and showed up ten minutes early , her uniform tracksuit zipped furiously to the very top . At nights , she spent her time typing on her mobile phone .
We knew Mei couldn ’ t have jumped . The nets had been up since the last girl succeeded . Now , there were walls of barbed wire on the balconies , thumbs-up posters exhorting us to “ be happy ” glued on the backs of bathroom stalls . Every hallway had taller railings . We were reminded - warned - to work .
In the end , Mei ’ s disappearance was defined as a ‘ personal emergency ’ by an expressionless Hushi , who ignored our attempts at further questions . Apparently , the news had even travelled to the director in his brightly lit , air-conditioned office . It was clear , then : Mei was gone .
We tried to imagine her while arranging the little she had in a backpack . Tears slid glassily down her face and clung to her chin before wetting the dollar bills she carried . Then , on a cross-country bus , she watched the fields submerge their short buildings .
There were stories , told after lights out , about rooftop ghosts , who paced the railings until either gravity or memory dragged them out . We could not understand those deaths , not least because everything churned with life , messily , resoundingly . We slept in rooms so cramped that it was impossible to distinguish an arm from a leg , a stomach from a pillow . If someone was on their menstruation cycle , which was often , there would be the faint trace of iron in the air . We felt , giddily , as packed up as the chicken meat that we prepared . Whispers would travel in the darkness like hair ribbons pulled by the wind .
There would always be someone crying in the dark . When asked , nobody would ever admit to it in the morning .
Groups of girls came together , fell out , fought over the same things that everyone sooner or later forgot about . More girls continued to run away . Some relationships , forged on days off , lasted - most didn ’ t , though it didn ’ t matter - and we all were caught in the immeasurable push forward , towards each meal , towards each day off , sliding on a downward slope until we could finally come to rest .
A month after Mei ’ s departure , Shizhang was delivering more announcements . “ The foreign press has come to Shanghai , seeking to make money off of our honest factory . They want to do so by condemning our equipment , our standards , our people . Do we want to lose our jobs ?”
“ No ,” we responded flatly .