Sweat by Mark Gilleo

that Wei Ling’s departure didn’t go unnoticed by her three roommates. But it was five in the morning, sleep was at a premium, and the alarm wasn’t set to start screaming for another half an hour.
    Shi Shi Wong slept in the bunk under Wei Ling and the light aluminum frame of the two-story bed made every movement of either occupant a shared one. Through a half-closed eye, Shi Shi watched Wei Ling bend over and dart from the room. It wasn’t uncommon behavior. The food served by the sweatshop kitchen haunted all the ladies from time to time. Shi Shi tossed and turned for twenty minutes before slipping on her bright green flip-flops and going to check on her bunkmate.
    Wei Ling was curled in the fetal position, clutching her stomach on the floor in front of the toilet in the first stall. The remains of last night’s sesame noodles painted the floor between her body and the intended porcelain target. The longest strands of her hair mixed with the nastiness on the dirty tile floor. Shi Shi pulled her bunkmate up by the armpits and half-walked, half-dragged her friend to the shower stalls on the opposite end on the room. She fetched a wet hand towel and pressed the cool cloth to Wei Ling’s face and neck.
    The foreman in charge of the morning headcount came up two seamstresses short in workgroup B. He demanded an explanation, and when no one volunteered information, he started swinging. When he reached the third girl, he closed his hand and landed a full-speed punch to the side of her head, sending her ninety-pound frame flying off the wooden seat onto the floor. Chinese curses flowed from the foreman’s mouth and he ordered everyone to get to work before stomping off in the direction of the seamstresses’ quarters. Every girl knew what was next.
    Wei Ling was sweating profusely, and Shi Shi Wong was trying to coax her out of bed when the foreman stormed through the door.
    â€œIt’s six-thirty, you lazy pieces of shit. Get your asses to work.”
    Shi Shi looked up and risked her face. “She’s sick. She needs to see a doctor.”
    The foreman looked at Wei Ling and back to Shi Shi. “You have five minutes to report to your work area,” he said without sympathy.
    On cue, Wei Ling sent a shower of vomit onto the foreman’s opened-toe sandals. The foreman’s need to cleanse himself overpowered his urge to use the girls as punching bags, and he limped to the shower to wash his foot. He yelled over his shoulder down the hall to Shi Shi. “Take her to the main building, have Chow Ying call the doctor, and get to work. You have four minutes.”
***
    The large room on the first floor of the administrative building served as Chang Industries’ doctor’s office, sickbay, and hospital. The four-bed room was well equipped. It had to be. Employees who were injured or too sick to work cost the company money. There was no time to be sick, not on Chang Industries’ dime.
    The doctor strolled in, black bag in hand, thirty minutes after he received the call on his boat. Wei Ling was on the bed in the far corner, half asleep. She had thrown up two more times after blasting the foreman’s foot and was feeling as bad as she looked.
    The doctor was American and competent. He had graduated from NYU before attending UCLA medical school. He was in his mid-forties, with sharp looks and a serious, but kind, bedside manner. He lived on Saipan as the physician for both Chang Industries and the local hospital. He could have worked anywhere, but after his first month on the island, he found himself unable to leave. The snorkeling, fishing, and sunsets were addictive. Living near the beach had spoiled him. He vowed never to return to the rush of a big city. He had spent twenty years of his life in downtown New York and LA. and had endured enough smog and congestion to last a lifetime.
    The doctor asked Wei Ling a few questions and Lee Chang needlessly translated them into