Days later, we learned from another worker that Luis had removed a safety guard from the soil-sort conveyor, enabling it to move linen down the line faster. The woman’s hand had been pulled under the belt, and it tore at her skin until someone pushed the emergency stop. We went to her house to see if she wanted to talk to a lawyer or file an OSHA complaint or to see if she just needed help doing the dishes. She peeked through the front door, which she had opened only wide enough for us to see a sliver of her face. You greeted her warmly and asked if we could come inside, but she shook her head no. We heard her voice for the first time: I’m sorry, but I need my job.

When we got back to the car, you were undone with outrage, slamming your palm on the dash with every other word. Her boss ripped the skin off her hand, and she won’t open the fucking door, you said. Bearing witness to this woman’s fear made you angry. We aren’t dogs, you said. I am not a mule, you said. Do they like being treated like mules? How are they not more fucking angry?