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  The foreign workers’ compound was surrounded by a high fence of thorn branches. Ordinarily, refugees weren’t allowed to go inside, unless they were delivering food or other supplies. A UN soldier was posted at the gate, an Asian man with the flag of some country Sylvie didn’t recognize stitched on his uniform. Sylvie swallowed her fear, trying to be brave as she approached him.

  “I need to speak to someone inside,” Sylvie told him.

  “No refugees,” he replied in halting French.

  “But I work at the clinic,” she explained. “I need to see one of the doctors.”

  The soldier didn’t seem to understand. “Go!” he commanded, shaking his rifle at her.

  “Is there a problem?”

  Sylvie turned to see the American aid worker, returning to the compound. He must have finished his shift at the distribution center.

  “I need to see Doctor Marie,” Sylvie told him. The American looked wary. Perhaps he’d had enough of complaining Congolese for today. “Please,” Sylvie pleaded. “My name is Sylvie. She knows me. I work for her at the clinic.”

  He thought it over for a moment, then said to the guard, “She’s okay.”

  Beyond the gate, Sylvie saw green canvas tents instead of mud huts. It looked…temporary, as though the foreign workers might pack up their tents and leave Nyarugusu at any moment. Several white people, men and women, sat in camp chairs, sipping beers in the late afternoon sun. Among them was Doctor Van de Velde, the head doctor. When he saw Sylvie enter with the aid worker, he got up from his chair and came over.

  “She’s not supposed to be in here,” he scolded the American. “What do you think you’re doing, Martin?”

  “She says she works at the clinic,” Martin replied with a shrug.

  Doctor Van de Velde looked at Sylvie, recognition dawning. “Only regular staff is allowed inside the compound,” he said.

  “She only wants to talk to Marie,” said Martin—

  suddenly her ally—earning a glare from the much older doctor.

  “Please,” said Sylvie. “I just need to speak with her for a moment, then I will be gone.”

  Doctor Van de Velde frowned while he thought it over. Then, reluctantly, he turned and shouted, “Marie!”

  Marie emerged from one of the tents. She looked younger than she did in the hospital. Sylvie was surprised to see her wearing shorts and a skimpy top—a Congolese woman would never have dressed like that.

  “Sylvie! What’s wrong?” she asked, crossing to her.

  “I need to talk to you,” whispered Sylvie urgently.

  Marie picked up on Sylvie’s plea for privacy. “Come inside the tent.”

  “Don’t make a habit of this!” warned Doctor Van de Velde as the two of them headed away.

  “I’m sorry I got you in trouble,” Sylvie whispered to her.

  “Don’t mind him,” replied Marie. “What’s he going to do? Fire me?”

  Inside the tent, there were two cots and a plastic storage bin with drawers. On top of the bin there was a framed photograph of a nicely dressed African-looking family—an older man and woman and two girls who looked like Marie.

  “My parents and sisters,” explained Marie.

  Sylvie stared at the photo. Marie’s family looked nice—happy, like Marie.

  “What’s wrong, Sylvie?” asked Marie. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

  “When can I go to Canada?” she blurted. “I need to go soon!”

  “Why?” Marie asked in confusion. “What’s going on?”

  “Please, how long will it take?”

  “I don’t know exactly, but these things take time.”

  “I don’t have time!”

  Marie held up her hands to slow Sylvie down. “Not long ago you were mad at me for pressuring you to go,” she said. “What’s happened?”

  Sylvie began to tremble. “Olivier told Kayembe I’ll marry him. My brother has given me away.”

  Surprise played across Marie’s face, then anger. “I’ll speak with your brother—”

  “No! It’s too dangerous. Olivier has become one of Kayembe’s men.”

  “How? What’s he doing for him?”

  “He won’t say,” said Sylvie, the words tumbling out now. “But Olivier knows how to drive a truck now, and Kayembe told me he’s bringing coltan out of North Kivu. Maybe Olivier is working for him as a driver.”

  “Kayembe is breaking the law by bringing coltan over the border,” said Marie when Sylvie stopped to catch her breath. “I’ll report him to the Tanzanian authorities and they’ll expel him. If he’s not here, he can’t force you to marry him.”

  “No! If you stand in his way, he will make you suffer.” As Sylvie spoke, she realized her warning to Marie applied to herself as well. If I say no, he will make me suffer. Not only me, but the whole family, too.

  Marie shook her head in disgust. “He thinks he runs the place!”

  “He does run it,” replied Sylvie.

  Marie stared at Sylvie, the complications sinking in. “C’mon,” she said at last, heading out of the tent. “There’s someone we need to talk to.”

  Sylvie kept up with Marie’s brisk pace as they crossed an open area to a rounded metal hut. Inside, Marie sat down at laptop computer, like the one Sylvie’s father used to have back in their village, only newer.

  “Have you ever Skyped before?” she asked.

  “What?” replied Sylvie.

  “You’ll see.”

  Marie’s fingers were dancing over the keyboard. There was a ringing sound, and after a few moments a young white man appeared on the computer screen. He was thin-faced, with reddish hair. On a shelf behind him there were many books.

  Marie smiled. “Alain! Thank heavens you’re there!”

  “Is everything okay, cherie?” the young man asked. “You’re calling early.”

  From his eager concern, Sylvie wondered if the man was Marie’s boyfriend.

  “Don’t worry. I’m fine,” she reassured him. “I have someone here who would like to talk with you.” Marie got up and indicated that Sylvie should sit in her place. “This is my friend Alain, in Montreal,” she told her. “He already knows a lot about you.” Suddenly timid, Sylvie hesitated. “Go on!” said Marie with an encouraging smile.

  Sylvie sat and looked into the screen. She could see her own image in a small square in the corner. Alain’s face lit up when he recognized her.

  “Sylvie!” he said, his voice slightly delayed and the video of his face jumpy. “I was just talking about you with some friends of mine.”

  Sylvie didn’t know what to say in reply. Marie leaned down so that they were both visible in the little square box.

  “Alain, tell Sylvie what’s happening.”

  “Sure, okay. Sylvie, we’ve started a web campaign on the Internet to raise money for you to come to Canada.”

  “A what?” asked Sylvie. She knew about the Internet, but she had no idea what a “web campaign” was.

  Marie saw Sylvie’s confusion. She explained, “Alain runs a website keeping tabs on mining operations in the Congo, to raise awareness about the suffering that results from the fighting over coltan and other minerals.”

  “We’re starting a campaign on the website about you, Sylvie.” Alain picked up from Marie. “About your situation as a refugee.”

  “Basically,” continued Marie, “in order for you to go to Canada you have to be sponsored by people who are willing to look after you. My parents want to do that, but they’re retired and not wealthy. So Alain is using the website to raise the money you’ll need for travel, and to finish high school in Montreal.”

  Sylvie’s heart leapt. “Thank you!” she sputtered to both Marie and Alain. “Thank you so much!”

  “We can’t get ahead of ourselves,” cautioned Marie. “We figure we’ll need fifty thousand dollars to cover your expenses until you finish high school, more when you continue to university.”

  To Sylvie, it was an unimaginable amount of
money.

  “When people see your photo on the website, Sylvie,”

  said Alain, “they start to understand what is going on there.”

  Suddenly, Sylvie’s face fell. She knew that the Internet went all around the world. Now people everywhere could see the ugliness of her scar. Her heart was pounding, her stomach lurching. Seeing her panic, Marie rested her hand lightly on Sylvie’s shoulder.

  Alain looked worried. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s the photo,” explained Marie. “Sylvie’s sensitive about…”

  She didn’t need to finish the sentence. Alain seemed to understand.

  “Sylvie, I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought we had your permission to use it. We’ll take it down.”

  “No, don’t,” replied Marie flatly. Sylvie turned to her in surprise. Whose side was she on? “Look, it’s your decision,” Marie told her, “but when people see you and find out about your life, they start to understand what’s going on in the DRC, how lives are being destroyed because of blood minerals like coltan. People need to understand the human cost of the things we take for granted. When they see your picture, they get it. Sylvie, you could help lots of other Congolese.” Sylvie turned her head away. “If only you could see yourself the way others do,” Marie coaxed gently. “A beautiful girl. A smart girl. A strong girl.”

  “I don’t care about others,” Sylvie said, her voice thick with emotion. “I care about my family.”

  “Remember, eventually you’ll be able to help them, too.”

  Hope and fear tugged at Sylvie, pulling her in opposite directions. Seeing her torment, Marie squeezed her shoulder.

  “It’s okay. I’m pressuring you too much,” she said. She turned to Alain. “Let’s give Sylvie some time to think.”

  But Sylvie was already thinking. She had to do whatever it took, she realized, to save the family from Kayembe, and from Nyarugusu—it was what Papa would have wanted her to do, even if it meant exposing her ugliness to the world. She looked into the computer screen and told Alain, “You can use the photo.”

  “Good!” replied Alain.

  “But my family needs to come, too,” she said. “All of us. My mother, my sister, and my two brothers. ”

  Sylvie and Alain both hesitated.

  “Sylvie, that’s a lot more complicated,” replied Alain.

  “I’m not leaving without them,” she told them. “All of us must come.”

  Marie took in a deep breath. “Okay,” she nodded, after a moment.

  “But Marie—” Alain began to argue with her.

  “I know it won’t be easy, Alain,” Marie told him, “but we have to find a way.”

  Alain didn’t look convinced, but Sylvie saw the determination in Marie’s face and took heart. In the tug-of-war going on inside her, she allowed hope to pull her away from fear.

  IT WAS ALMOST DARK by the time Sylvie reached home with the beans and oil, jumping at every shadow as she hurried along the track that led to Zone 3. If it wasn’t safe for a girl to walk alone through the camp in the daytime, a girl alone at night was assumed by many to be a prostitute, and free for the taking. All the way, she worried about how to explain to her mother that she had no maize. But when she entered the hut, she was surprised to find Mama seated on the dirt floor with Lucie, the two of them measuring handfuls of cornmeal from a full sack by the light of a kerosene lamp. There was some tinned meat and fish stacked beside the sack of meal, even fresh tomatoes and an eggplant.

  “Where did all this come from?” asked Sylvie, half suspecting.

  “Soldiers brought it!” reported Lucie, the sticky dough webbing her small fingers.

  Sylvie realized, This is how Kayembe thinks he can buy me! She wanted to take the food and toss it outside, but then what would they eat?

  “Were you too lazy to carry the maize yourself?”

  remarked Mama as Sylvie set down the oil and beans. When Sylvie didn’t reply, she made a clucking sound with her tongue. “Gifts always come with a price.”

  She thinks I slept with him! Sylvie’s face went hot with humiliation.

  “I don’t want his gifts, and I did nothing to get them!” Sylvie snapped back. She saw Pascal seated on the sleeping mat, tossing a small stone back and forth between his hands, sulking. “What’s wrong, Pascal?” He didn’t reply.

  “Mama says you’re going away. Is it true, Sylvie?” asked Lucie.

  Now Sylvie understood why Pascal was pouting—she had promised him she would never leave him. She turned an angry look on Mama, who continued shaping dough balls for frying, avoiding Sylvie’s eyes. What had she hoped to gain by telling the children? Did she want to turn them against her?

  Pascal looked up at her, glaring defiantly. “Go where?”

  “To Canada.”

  “What’s that?” asked Lucie.

  “It’s a country, in North America. Across the ocean. We’re all going,” she told them. “Pascal, do you hear me? All of us will go.”

  “We should be going home,” stated Mama, keeping her gaze fixed on the dough. “Think about your father. What if there’s no one here when he comes? I’ll die waiting for Patrice, if I have to. If you go, you’ll go without me.”

  Sylvie looked from Mama to Pascal, tossing the stone between his hands harder and faster, his hurt and anger building. She couldn’t break her promise and leave him, any more than she could leave Mama. Either they all went to Canada, or they all must stay here. And if they stayed here, the only way to protect the family would be for her to give herself to Kayembe. She cursed hope for tricking her into believing there could be another way. But it was her own fault. She had let hope lift her heart, and now it had so much further to fall.

  ON SUNDAY, Laiping got to the Internet café early to call her parents on one of the computers, the way Min had showed her. She’d come alone because Fen was studying English from a tattered book she had found in the dorm common room—Speak English to be Successful!, another part of her self-improvement plan—and Min still wasn’t feeling well.

  “Auntie hasn’t heard from Min,” her mother told her over Auntie’s cell phone. Her parents had no phone of their own, so they had to borrow the phone that Min had bought for her parents. “Is everything all right with her?”

  “She’s fine,” Laiping replied with a white lie. “Just busy.” She intentionally waited until her father came on the line to explain about the company holding back her pay. It was her mother who worried the most about money. “I won’t be able to send anything until next month, Baba,” she told him.

  “Send it when you can,” he said, easing her mind. “You’re a good daughter.”

  Without warning, Laiping’s eyes welled up. Until this moment, she hadn’t realized how much she missed her father’s kindness.

  “Soon I’ll have a mobile of my own and I can call you any time,” she promised.

  “Just make sure you work hard,” he advised her. “Make the bosses feel important. That’s the path to success.”

  Laiping wished she could speak with her parents longer, but they were unused to talking on the phone and quickly ran out of things to say. Besides, the people in line waiting for their turn at the computer were giving her impatient looks. After she said goodbye, she looked around the café full of chatterboxes. All the things she had found so exciting when she first arrived on the company campus

  —the crowds, the noise, the activity—were annoying to her this morning. Maybe it was that after working two full weeks in the factory, she felt so tired. Or maybe it was that all these strangers made her feel lonely. Then her heart took a small leap. In the press of people placing their orders at the counter, she spotted Kai. Gathering her courage, she went up to him.

  “Hello,” she said, suddenly shy and awkward. What if he didn’t remember her?

  “Laiping!” he said with a grin. “I was hoping to see you here.” Even when he was smiling, there was an inten­sity about him that missed nothing—including her sadness. “What’s the matt
er?” he asked.

  Laiping shrugged. “Just tired.”

  “You need a coffee,” he replied.

  “I don’t have enough money,” she told him. “I was supposed to get paid, but there’s nothing in my bank account.”

  “I get it,” he said knowingly. “The company is holding your money hostage. Go find us a table. I’ll buy you a coffee.”

  “Thank you.” Laiping didn’t tell him she preferred tea.

  Laiping waited for a table to become vacant, and found one just as Kai carried over two mugs of coffee. She added enough sugar and milk to make it drinkable.

  “How was your week?” asked Kai, sitting across from her. “Other than not getting paid.”

  “It’s so unfair,” she complained.

  Kai glanced around to make sure he wasn’t being overheard. “The company doesn’t care about being fair. They care about making money.”

  “But what can I do to get what they owe me?”

  Kai shrugged. “They say that if we have issues about working conditions, we should take them to the union. But the union is a joke. It’s supposed to fight for the rights of workers, but it’s run by the government, and the government is Steve Chen’s biggest fan.”

  “I don’t even really know who Steve Chen is,” said Laiping.

  “Ai ya!” exclaimed Kai at her ignorance.

  “I know he owns the company,” she replied, “but who is he?”

  “He’s one of the richest guys in China. He owns factories all over Asia that make electronics for big brand names. Rich people in America and Europe spend big money for the stuff we make, while we get treated like slaves—and Steve Chen pockets billions. Even the Americans think it’s wrong. There’ve been all kinds of protests over there.”