Hey, guys! Can't believe it took this long to update, and I apologize. I got out of school a few weeks ago which was overwhelming in itself; and things have just been crazy. Kids, NEVER take honors chemistry if you want to keep your sanity. Anyway, back to the story...

I stare out the window at the grey sky. It's a miserable morning, and the sky seems to reflect how my day has been. I'm so tired and so hungry. Even though I always feel that way now, today it's worse than usual. I wish that I could sleep, and not wake up for days. I think about what had happened just a couple of hours before, and it all feels like a blur. Is this all just a dream? I must be dreaming. It all happened so fast, and yet I ran away. My stomach drops as I realise that my friends might still be there. I left all of the other girls; I'm a coward. Why did I run? Why didn't I at least take Maria and Maeve with me?

"How is it feeling?" Dinah asks across from me. She has bags under her eyes, and you can hear the exhaustion in her voice, just as always.

I squirm uncomfortably on the bed, sitting on the side with my feet flat on the floor. Around me, nurses in the hospital care for other patients; the sterile smell stings my nose. I lift the damp cloth off and look at the tight stitches on my bruised arm that was covered in blood and glass not long ago. I get tempted to roll down my sleeve momentarily, not wanting to look at them before saying, "It's sore."

"Well leave it alone," she says, "it'll make it worse."

"Oh of course," I say sarcastically, "because they'll chop off my arm if I roll down my sleeve."

There is a moment of awkward silence.

"I still don't think we should have come here," I remark, "it was just a cut. The last thing we need is any medical fees to pay."

"Jane, you were hysterical. There were pieces of glass still in your arm, and you were getting blood everywhere. I don't see any reason we shouldn't go to a hospital."

"Maybe because we don't have the money," I mutter.

There's another moment of silence.

"But on the contrary," I ask, "how do I look?"

"Well... the bruises are starting to show," Dinah says gently, "your face looks like it's seen better days."

"That's because it has."

Dinah pauses, and I already know what she wants to ask. She asks the dreaded question, as if she read my mind, "Why didn't you tell me about the abuse? Or the beatings?"

I sigh and think for a moment. "There wasn't a reason to talk about them," I explain, "beatings were rare, and they never happened to me until now. Besides, I thought that having a sadistic supervisor with a pipe was normal."

"It is a bit," she answers, "my supervisors are no picnic. But I never want you working in a place like that."

"It's the least of my concerns," I say, "all I've been worried about is bringing money home to pay the rent."

Dinah is quiet for a moment, "what exactly... happened?"

"I told you that I was beaten, Dinah. I cut my arm when I fell on glass."

"Yes, but," she trails off, "you know what I mean."

I recounted to Dinah as much as I could about the incident and the way Saunders has always acted.

"I was scared, and I was in pain," I continue, "but the worst part was how helpless I felt. I was at the mercy of him. He looked at me strangely, you know. He had a greedy look in his eye as if he enjoyed watching me like that. If it hadn't been for Maria and Maeve, I don't know what would have happened," I hesitate, "and I left them."

Dinah sits quietly, trying to process what I had described.

"It wasn't often that a girl was assaulted like that," I say, "but when it did they just went back to work. They pushed through and kept going. And I ran away. I am the lucky one compared to everyone else."

"Well, upon reflection," Dinah hesitates, "you were already working nearly twenty-four hours, and you were somewhat... bleeding out."

"I don't mean in just that sense," I continue, "there were so many girls in worse situations than us. Maeve is the most optimistic and cheerful little girl, but her father is dead, her mother is nearly insane, and she faces so much backlash for being Cambodian."

Dinah sits there in silence, her eyebrows furrowed and her gaze fixed on me.

"And of course, Maria is Italian, and she has numerous nicknames from Saunders for it. Some of these girls don't have homes to go to. Many of them would be turned away from hospitals because they are immigrants," I stop. My chest feels as if it's getting tighter and tighter.

Dinah sits in silence, with both exhaustion and worry etched on her face.

"You know," Dinah says, "there are many girls in my factory that don't have shoes. Many of them are sick, or injured. I am thankful that neither you nor Ruby works in a place like that. But I didn't know how bad your sweatshop was."

"I'm never going back there," I utter towards the floor.

We continue to sit in silence. I can't stop thinking about the sweatshop. Are the girls still there? What if Saunders took out his anger on Maria and Maeve? What if they lost their jobs? What if Maria fell asleep again and Saunders beat her too? What if...

A nurse approaches us, with blonde hair in a tight bun and a warm smile.

"Are you Dinah and Jane Evans?"

"Yes," Dinah answers.

"Well the doctors have just informed me that the likelihood of Jane's laceration being infected is quite low," the nurse explains, "the doctors were quite thorough when they cleansed the wound, which is good. Just come back in a couple of weeks to get your stitches taken out, but in the meantime you are free to go home," she smiles.

"Thank you," Dinah hesitates, "I do have one question, though. Is it possible for us to have a look at your past admission records? We are looking for someone and we would like to check if they have been here."

This takes the nurse by surprise, and she falls silent for a moment.

"I can ask," she answers, "but I'm not sure."

"Oh, thank you."

The nurse walks away, and I look back at Dinah; not being surprised at what she had asked.

"Is this the least bit... interesting to you?" I inquire.

"What is?"

"You know," I answer, "being at a hospital."

"Why?" she asks, dumbfounded.

I am silent for a moment, astonished, "You want to be a doctor, remember?"

"Oh," Dinah answers, "I forgot about that."

I look to the floor, saddened at what my sister had just said. The Dinah I know should be starting university in London, chasing her dream. Not playing mother with us and getting ready to lose our terrace flat.

The nurse comes back, "I'm afraid that we cannot allow you to sift through all our records," she says, "but if you tell me the name of whom you are looking for, then I could search on your behalf."

"Oh, thank you so much," Dinah smiles, "could you look for either Ann or John Evans, please? We haven't seen them since the eighth of March."

"Of course," she says, "but if you wouldn't mind, we'd appreciate it if you could wait in the waiting area so we could use the bed for someone else."

We do as the nurse asks, and we wait on the hard chairs in the waiting room for the longest time, again. There are only some people that wait around us, some looking tired, some anxious. My arm feels so tight and bruised, and the hard chair makes me wish that I took a nap on that hospital bed; I wish that I could just sleep.

The nurse enters the waiting room and approaches us while holding a stack of papers.

"I'm afraid that John Evans is a rather common name," she says, "but I have several signed forms with some information about each John Evans that have been here since March. I couldn't find anything about Ann Evans."

Dinah sighs, out of either relief or worry.

"Thank you so much," she says, "you don't know just how much we appreciate this!"

The nurse leaves us with the stacks of papers in our laps, and we immediately begin searching through the papers. We divide them, and I thoroughly search each one. My hands are shaking; either from the shock from what had happened earlier, or the anticipation. I scan each page carefully, looking at names, birthdates, and handwriting. Before I know it, I have reached the bottom of my portion of the papers, and I go through to check again. Afterward, I look over at Dinah, who is at a loss for words.

"I haven't found anything," I say, "did you find something?"

Dinah slouches back in her chair, which is unusual to how poised she always sits. She leans her head back and rubs her eyes.

"I've found nothing," she groans, "just as always. And I'm so tired of that."

I look to the floor in disappointment. We have searched just about every other hospital in Cardiff along with other places, and our search has led to nothing so far.

"Dinah," I utter, "we have searched prisons before. And nearly every hospital. What if we tried searching at workhouses?"

"The tloty?" Dinah repeats.

I look around and see people glancing at Dinah with a look of disdain, and Dinah remains oblivious. Usually, she is not one to forget that speaking Welsh in public is seen as shameful.

"Er... yes," I explain, "I'm sure that there are several workhouses that mother or father could be at."

"Of course!" she exclaims, "I can't believe that I hadn't thought of that. We will go home, and tomorrow we can look."

"Why tomorrow?" I ask, "we might not have the time tomorrow."

"But Jane," she reasons, "you've been through enough today. I think that you should rest."

"I know very well what I have been through," I remark, "but I think that I can make it. We should do this while we have the time."

After signing some forms, Dinah and I leave the hospital to go home. When we arrive back home, I change my dress, being weary of my stitches. After that, I eat some toast, all while resisting the urge to fall onto my bed.

As Dinah and I leave the flat, I stop and look closely at a subtle streak of dull red or brown on the wall. I quickly look away, feeling embarrassed at the sight of my blood smeared in such a fashion. I glance at Dinah, noticing her face fall.

"Oh, don't worry," she says softly, "it will wash off."

We shut the door behind us, and begin the next phase of our search.

***

The air smells musty in the dim office we're standing in. Dinah and I patiently wait as the man in front of us pleads with the secretary.

"Please, madam," he begs, "my tenants cannot pay their rent anymore. They have no jobs, and I don't know where else to send them."

"I'm sorry," says an irritated middle-aged woman, "we're full. A word of advice, don't care about them so much."

My stomach flips. I wonder how long it will be before my sisters and I are here.

The man puts his top hat back on, and steps out of the room; clearly disappointed. In Wales and the rest of Britain, workhouses are places offered for poor people to go to for work and lodging. Maybe mother and father came here looking for jobs after father had lost his.

Dinah and I approach the woman at the desk. She has wrinkles on her forehead and a grouchy expression behind her spectacles.

"Good morning," Dinah greets, "my name is Dinah Evans, and I am looking for some people that might be here."

"What are their names?" the woman asks monotonously, "who are they?"

"Ann and John Evans. They are our parents, and we are desperate to find them. We haven't seen them since March."

"Uh-huh," she says, "excuse me for a moment."

The woman stands up from behind her desk and leaves the room for a moment. She comes back with a finely dressed man. He looks like any other generic businessman, only he carries a baton on his belt. I quickly feel myself recoil, thinking of Saunders' pipe.

"Mr. Lewis will help you find them," the woman gestures.

I look over to Dinah for a moment with hesitation, but she stands tall and looks over at the man introduced as Mr. Lewis.

"Thank you," she says, and gestures for me to follow her.

We go through a large door behind Mr. Lewis, with the secretary closing it and locking it behind us.

Mr. Lewis walks in front of us and looks at us with a dull smile, "do you really think that your parents are here? What are you ladies doing all alone?"

"My husband works as a doctor," Dinah lies, "my sister has been in our care ever since our parents disappeared."

"Oh, I see."

We continue walking down a dark and narrow corridor until we reach a pair of large double doors.

"Right through here," Mr. Lewis says, "if you'll just follow me."

He opens the door, and we step inside to find rows upon rows of women wearing identical dresses and mob caps. They sit tightly cramped while eating what looks like a form of watery soup. They look tired and monotonously stare at the floor.

"This way," the man beckons.

"Everyone looks skinny," I mutter to Dinah.

We go through a door on the other side of the stuffy room and down another corridor. The man unlocks another door, and we find ourselves in a dry and dead courtyard. I see men in uniform clothes, all working. The only sound is occasional mumbling or moans of pain. My heart drops to my stomach as I feel a hand grip my arm. I yank my arm away, thankful that he grabbed my good arm.

"Do you have any food?" the man begs.

"No. Is there someone here named John-" I'm cut off as Mr. Lewis rushes in, with his baton.

"GET AWAY FROM HER! BACK TO WORK!" he bellows, only after hitting him in the back with the baton. I wince as I hear the sound of the baton hitting his flesh. The man collapses onto his knees, holding his arm above his head, cowering.

"I- I'm sorry," the frail man's voice shakes. After he sees Mr. Lewis slowly withdraw, he gets up and goes back to work.

Mr. Lewis turns toward me and Dinah, "My apologies," he says calmly, "let's carry on."

Dinah looks at me with wide eyes, absolutely stunned.

As we continue down the corridors, Mr. Lewis acts as if nothing has happened.

"Your parents would be with more recent arrivals," he explains, "we group our workers according to their sex, and the time that they have arrived."

We say nothing; and for a few moments, the only sound that can be heard is the repeated echo of our footsteps. The corridors are dimly lit, every window we pass by has iron bars over it, and the air feels humid and stuffy. How far do these corridors go?

We finally reach some doors once more, and I couldn't help but notice the similarity to the doors when Dinah and I had visited a prison a few weeks ago. We step through the doors and find ourselves in another courtyard nearly identical to the one we saw earlier. It may be merely the same one that we were in only minutes ago.

Mr. Lewis stops and gestures, "are any of these men your father?"

Dinah and I stand there, dumbfounded. What is he expecting us to do? I awkwardly step forward, and slowly move around the room, trying to see if any of these people might be my father. Many of the men stare at me strangely, looking at me as if I'm finding a pet to bring home. I approach a man kneeling over a pile of rotting ropes, he's covered in dirt and has dust in his hair.

"Er... excuse me," I say.

He looks up at me, with wide eyes. I can see the desperation etched on his face.

"You're probably not the man I'm looking for," I explain, "but my sister and I are looking for our father, and we need to know if he is here. His name is John Evans, and he has brown hair, a bit darker than your own. Do you know him?"

He looks confused, saying nothing. I stand there, waiting for an answer.

"I see hundreds of people every day," he says hoarsely, "and I haven't met a John Evans."

"Oh," I say disappointed, "thank you."

Dinah and I continue asking more men in the courtyard, while Mr. Lewis stands lazily by the door. With every man I asked, and every 'no' I got, the more hopeless it felt. My stomach gets in a tighter and tighter knot when I realise that my parents are probably not here.

***

"Where am I going to work now?" I stare down at the table in the dining room, which is dimly lit by candlelight. Dinah and I sit at the table, with Ruby upstairs getting ready for bed. Being in my nightgown feels like such a relief for some reason, and I look forward to finally going to bed.

"Well, you can work with Ruby at her job," Dinah says as she mends the large tear in the sleeve of my work dress. I stare at the sleeve; this morning feels like years ago. I feel so embarrassed. Why did I have to be the one that lost my job? My chest tightens as images from this morning reel through my head; I recall the feeling when Saunders' hands were on my ankles, dragging me back while I screamed in terror. If only I hadn't said anything in the first place, it wouldn't have happened.

"I'm sorry, Dinah," I croak, my eyes begin to well with tears, "I am so selfish. I was reckless and lost my job. I should've begged for my job back instead of running away. What kind of person runs away like I did?"

I can't bear to make eye contact with Dinah. I look down at my hands, feeling tears run down my face as I begin to sob.

"Jane," Dinah says, moving closer to me, "listen to me. I thank God that you ran away. Mother and father would be glad that you ran. And I don't think for a second that you did that out of selfishness. You had no choice. You survived."

The thought sinks in. I did survive. Dinah wraps me in a hug, which feels strange, considering I hardly ever hug my sisters. I cry, feeling Dinah's sleeve get damp with my tears.

"I'm proud of you, Jane," she says quietly, "you fought back as hard as you could. And I pray that you never have to fight like that again."

Dinah and I say goodnight, and I head upstairs to go to bed. I close my bedroom door behind me and see Ruby sitting on her bed, reading a book. I approach the mirror and brush my hair.

"You searched for Mama and Papa today?" Ruby asks.

"Yes," I answer, looking at Ruby in the mirror, "we went to a tloty today. Those places are not pretty. We didn't even find anything."

"Well I think we should search all of them," Ruby declares, "just to be sure."

"You're right," I turn around and sit on my bed, "we have to be thorough."

After a moment of silence, Ruby asks, "is it true that you have lost your job?"

I sigh, not wanting to revisit the topic, "yes."

Ruby smiles, "you could work with me. That would be exciting."

"Oh, I don't know," I say, slipping under my blankets, "we'll see."

I blow out my candle at my bedside and stare up at the ceiling. I straighten out my arm, which still aches. I can only think of one thing:

What am I going to do?