“I think this is where they told me to go,” Liv said while guiding Firuzeh past the uneven steps of one of the homes. A South Asian man in a doctor’s coat, with one of his eyes bloodied and beaten, answered the door.
“This woman has been hurt.” Firuzeh showed the doctor her burn, now weeping and inflamed. The doctor nodded and showed them to a treatment room, where Firuzeh sat on the paperless examination table. He began to rummage through the random supplies strewn throughout the room.
“Actually . . . can you give us a minute, doctor?” Liv said pointedly. “I want to have a look at her myself.” The doctor looked between Firuzeh and Liv curiously, then obeyed orders and left the room. Silence.
Liv walked to the window of the messy room and grabbed a bandage off the sill. “You know, Firuzeh . . . I saw you.” Firuzeh froze. How did this woman know her name? “It was last month. I saw you reach out for a leaf outside your window and put it in your mouth. We’ve been watching you for a while, and there was something about watching you eat that leaf that told me this person, this special person, has hope. She hasn’t been beaten down yet.” Silence. Liv positioned herself to face Firuzeh and began inspecting her hands.
“Where are your fingernails?” Firuzeh held her breath at the question. “Did this happen here?” Firuzeh gave the smallest nod. “Do you know how President Pryce was killed?”
“Excuse me?”
“The president of the United States.”
“Last winter . . . He was . . . assassinated.”
“Yes. That’s what you may have heard. By that Black extremist group. That’s what everybody heard.” Liv took a half-used tube of ointment from a cabinet and applied some to Firuzeh’s hand. A sting, then relief. Liv stepped close enough to whisper in Firuzeh’s ear. “But did you know he was already dying of cancer? That he actually died of cancer. There was no assassination? Or maybe you knew that already.” Firuzeh withdrew her hand from Liv’s grasp. This was a trick question. This was a set-up.
“Firuzeh, would you like to leave here?” Silence, save for the fluorescent lights humming above their heads. “I know you’re scared. But there’s not a lot of time. I can help you.”
Firuzeh got off the examination table and made for the door.
“I’m serious. I can get you out and to a place of safety. You’re not the first one I’ve approached. I helped a man out of the workhouse in the Junction. I helped a mother reunite with her two children out of a workhouse in Scarborough. Both of them are now being trained to take part in an uprising. Firuzeh, we’re going to fight back. I can help you, but we need your help too.”
“I’m going to get in a lot of trouble.”
“Will you be any less safe than you are here at the workhouse? I know who you are, Firuzeh. Firuzeh Pasdar. You worked at the Transgender Assistance Centre of Toronto. I know you. I know your politics; I know you have the skills to lead people, to work within a group; I know you have supported people who have survived far worse than what you are surviving now. We need someone like you to work with us, to fight with us. I need you to listen to me. Give me your hand.” Liv began to bandage Firuzeh’s hand, and Liv’s voice became but a whisper. She leaned into Firuzeh’s ear again. “There will be a work order for denim overalls next week. The following week will be bedsheets. The next week will be comforters. That week, when one of the Boots comes by to collect the work order, he will expect you to hide among the duvets before he wheels it towards packaging.”
“A Boot?”
“Yes. There are a few more like him on the inside, helping others escape. The cart will not make its way to packaging, though. And I promise you, if you follow my instructions, if you tell no one, you will get out.”
“But what about everyone else?”
“I can only help one person at a time. I need you to trust me. I will bring you to a safer place. I promise.”
Liv made her way to the door, nonchalantly.
“Wait!” Firuzeh pleaded. “There are others.” Once a social worker, always a social worker.
“I can’t take any of the other women. Only one at a time.”
“No, not here. I had clients. Please.” Liv looked at her, confused.
“Please remember these names.” Firuzeh struggled to remember the faces of her numerous clients, and finally one came to her. “Said Damji! He’s a Trans elder who lived off Shuter Street.”
“Listen: if he’s an elder, the chances of his survival are slim. The Renovation tried to eliminate elders and those with disabilities first. We have relocated a few, but sadly, we weren’t able to rescue many.”
“Bahadur Talebi!” Firuzeh begged. “They’re a gender-Queer youth. They just got here from Iran a year ago. I know in my heart they ran. They’re a fighter. They’re probably hiding somewhere. I know it. Please.”
“You’re certain?” Liv’s lips tightened.
“Absolutely. I know it. I know they would have figured out a way to hide. Please find them a place where they can be safe. Please.”
Liv nodded in agreement, then she placed a finger over her lips before opening the door. Liv escorted Firuzeh back to the sewing shop, with the bandage on her hand, and she began counting down the weeks. Denim overalls. Bedsheets. Comforters. Freedom.
Rolls of fabric and cotton batting arrived the day the work order came in for the comforters. The fabric featured the most unattractive scene of a bloodhound, an American cocker spaniel and a sheepdog playing in a rural setting. It was hideous and hard to believe anyone would buy it. Still, there were a thousand of them that needed to be made by the end of the week. Firuzeh looked around at the Boots who delivered the supplies, wondering which one was in cahoots with Liv. None of them made eye contact. All of them moved the same way. Maybe Liv was a liar. Maybe no one would come to save her. Maybe she had betrayed Bahadur and put a target on their chest, now that she’d revealed their possible survival to a Boot. She would shake her head at these thoughts, choosing to believe that Liv’s promises would unfold as planned. After Emma’s passing, she had nothing to lose. Emma had made one choice. Now this was Firuzeh’s.
The week passed. Daniella and her crew were to cut and size the fabric and batting. Farrah and her crew were on assembly. Firuzeh’s crew did the final quilting pattern of alternating hourglass swirls across the fabric to ensure the batting wouldn’t shift. She remembered what Liv had said, which was to not tell a soul about her escape. But with the completion of each duvet, she looked around the room wishing she could take each one of the women with her.
The deadline for completion of the work order had arrived. Firuzeh opened up the window of her room and saw that the bush was completely full of both birds and leaves. She plucked one leaf from the bush and placed it in her mouth. The taste had changed. Not as bitter and much more tender. She savoured the slight crunch of the leaf before heading to the cafeteria for the usual white bread with an economical smear of peanut butter and one glass of powdered milk. She looked around at the Boots who patrolled the cafeteria; all of them looked identical. No suspicious movements.
Firuzeh watched as the final comforter was assembled. The batting was tucked into the two sections of fabric, and they were sewn together with a flawless seam. She watched the fabric pass under the presser foot to create the wave patterns to quilt the comforter. Her co-workers were already stretching their legs when she pulled the final piece from the machine and cut its thread. Night had fallen. One of the Boots blew a whistle. Dinnertime. Two Boots escorted her co-workers to the cafeteria. Firuzeh stayed behind to stretch her back and looked around. She was to place the final piece into a large cart full of other comforters manned by one of the Boots, who would wheel it to packaging.