The first thing Angelo noticed about the sickbay was the silence.
There were no doctors rushing between beds. No nurses shouting instructions. No sense of organized treatment.
Instead, there were people sitting outside the building.
Dozens of them.
Some were lying against the wall. Others sat with their heads between their knees. A few simply stared into the distance.
Angelo slowed.
"What is this?"
Russell didn't answer immediately.
Angelo turned toward him.
"Moses."
Russell swallowed.
"This is where we keep the workers who are too sick to remain in the mine."
Angelo looked back at the men.
"What exactly is wrong with them?"
"The illness has a name."
Russell's voice dropped.
"The workers call it the Blue Stomach."
Angelo frowned.
"Why?"
"Because of what happens to the victims."
Russell pointed toward one of the men sitting closest to the doorway.
Angelo looked.
At first he saw nothing unusual.
Then the man shifted his shirt.
The skin around his abdomen had turned a deep bluish colour.
Angelo's stomach tightened.
"What the hell?"
"It usually starts around the belly," Russell said. "Then it spreads."
"And after that?"
Russell didn't answer.
Angelo already knew.
"How many?"
"Thousands."
Angelo turned sharply.
"Thousands?"
"We've lost count."
For several seconds, Angelo couldn't speak.
He looked around again.
The people sitting outside weren't simply sick.
They were waiting.
Waiting to see whether they would live.
"Why wasn't I told this yesterday?"
"We didn't know how you'd react."
"How did you think I'd react?"
Russell remained silent.
Angelo walked toward the administration building.
"Inside."
Russell followed.
Once they were back in the office, Angelo closed the door.
"Start talking."
Russell sat down.
"The outbreak has been going on for some time. At first, we thought it was isolated. Then more miners became sick. Eventually entire families were affected."
"And you continued production?"
"We reduced shifts."
"That's not what I asked."
Russell looked at him.
"Yes."
Angelo paced across the room.
"Why?"
"Because the mine is important."
"To whom?"
Russell hesitated.
"To headquarters."
Angelo stopped.
"My mother?"
Russell said nothing.
Angelo understood.
"Have the authorities been informed?"
Another silence.
Angelo's patience disappeared.
"Have they?"
"Not officially."
"Why?"
"Because things are complicated out here."
Angelo laughed bitterly.
"Complicated?"
He pointed toward the window.
"People are dying."
"We've done everything we can."
"No. You've done everything you were ordered to do."
Russell lowered his head.
Angelo stared at him.
"Who ordered you to keep working?"
Russell remained silent.
That silence told Angelo enough.
He walked toward the telephone.
"I'm suspending production."
Russell looked up.
"Sir?"
"You heard me."
"We can't do that."
"I own the company?"
"Your mother does."
Angelo smiled without humour.
"Then tell her I'm taking responsibility."
He picked up the telephone.
"Sound the alarm."
Russell stared at him.
"Mr. Black—"
"Now."
Within minutes, the mine's warning siren began screaming across the compound.
Workers stopped.
Machinery slowed.
Then one machine after another fell silent.
For the first time in months, the South River mine stopped.
Angelo stepped outside.
The workers began emerging from the shafts.
They looked confused.
Then word spread.
Production had been suspended.
Angelo watched them.
Some cheered.
Others simply stood still, as though they couldn't believe what they had heard.
He looked at Russell.
"How long has it been since these men had a proper break?"
Russell didn't answer.
Angelo looked toward the sickbay.
His anger was slowly being replaced by something else.
Guilt.
He had arrived in South River thinking the people were miserable because they had chosen a miserable life.
Now he understood.
They hadn't chosen it.
They had been trapped in it.
He walked toward the sickbay.
Russell followed.
"I wouldn't go in there without protection."
"Why?"
"We still don't know exactly how the illness spreads."
Angelo stopped.
"What do you know?"
"Very little."
"That isn't good enough."
"No."
Angelo looked toward the dying workers.
"Then we're going to find out."
---
That evening, Angelo sat alone in his room.
The events of the day played repeatedly in his mind.
The faces.
The sickness.
The mine.
The workers.
His mother's company.
He thought about the life he had been living in Phoenix.
Restaurants.
University parties.
Cars.
Money.
Melissa.
He had complained about being sent here.
He had thought his mother was punishing him.
Now he wondered whether she had ever stopped to ask what was happening to the people whose labour had made her millions.
A knock interrupted his thoughts.
"Come in."
Maya entered carrying a tray.
"Dinner."
Angelo looked at it.
"Thank you."
She placed it beside him.
Then she noticed his expression.
"You look troubled."
"Do I?"
"You do."
Angelo looked at her.
"Do people here always look like that?"
"Like what?"
"Hopeless."
Maya's smile disappeared.
She looked toward the window.
"People here have learned not to expect much."
"Why?"
"Because expecting things makes disappointment hurt more."
Angelo studied her.
"What about you?"
Maya shrugged.
"I still expect things."
"Like what?"
She smiled faintly.
"Maybe I'll tell you someday."
Then she turned toward the door.
"Goodnight, Angelo."
He watched her leave.
For the first time since arriving in South River, he didn't think about Phoenix.
He didn't think about Melissa.
He didn't even think about his mother.
He thought about Maya.
And somewhere outside, beneath the silent mine, something continued to poison the people of South River.