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pants.
    Wei stared at the floor. “Sorry, Jin, I was asleep too. I didn’t hear.”
    Jin wanted to say something but there wasn’t time. He ran out of the room and down the hall. Several of the cells were empty and most had only one occupant. At the door to the wing, the orderly said “Arm.”
    Jin held out his arm. “204394.”
    “Quiet,” the man said. He waved a handheld device with a small screen over Jin’s arm. It beeped and the man turned his head and yelled “That’s it.” He opened the door for Jin. “Go ahead.”
    Jin joined about fifty other “residents,” and three orderlies escorted them to a large room with several long rows of chairs. The rows were separated by tall cubicle-like walls. The chairs looked almost like reclining beach chairs. Beside each chair, a tall silver pole held three bags of clear liquid, each with a tube hanging down. On the other side of each chair stood a machine with more readouts than a car dashboard and a bundle of wires hanging from the bottom, tied off on the chair rail.
    Jin had never seen anything like it. It never happened like this. Since he had arrived at the facility six months ago, the daily routine had rarely changed: breakfast, lunch, and dinner at the exact same times, always the same meals; after each meal, blood draws from the valve-like device they had implanted in his right arm; and sometimes, exercise in the afternoon, monitored by electrodes on his chest. The rest of the time, they were confined to the 10x10 cells, with two beds and a toilet. Every few days or so they took a picture of him with a big machine that made a low droning sound. They were always telling him to lie still.
    They showered once per week, in a large, co-ed group shower. That was by far the worst part — trying to control the urges in the shower. During his first month, a couple was caught fooling around. No one ever saw them again.
    Last month, Jin had tried to stay in his cell during shower time, but they had caught him. The supervisor had stormed into his cell. “We’ll kick you out if you disobey again,” he had said. Jin was scared to death. They were paying him $2 per day — a fortune, an absolute fortune. And he had no other options.
    His family had lost their farm near Burang. No one could afford the taxes on a small farm anymore; a larger farm, maybe. Land values were skyrocketing and the population was swelling throughout China. So his family did what many other farm families had done: sent their oldest for work in the city while the parents and younger children held on.
    His older brother found work in a factory making electronics. Jin and his parents visited him a month after he started. The conditions were much worse than here, and the work was already taking its toll — the strong, vibrant 21-year-old man who had left his family’s farm looked to have aged 20 years. He was pale, his hair was thinning, and he walked with a slight stoop. He coughed constantly. He said there had been a bug at the factory and everyone in his barracks had gotten it, but Jin didn’t believe him. His brother gave his parents $15 he had saved from his $.75/day salary. “Just think, in 5-10 years, I’ll have enough to buy us another farm. I’ll come home and we’ll start again.” They had all acted very excited. His parents had said they were so proud of him.
    On their way home, Jin’s father told them that tomorrow, he would go and find better work. That with his skills, he could surely make supervisor somewhere. He’d make good money. Jin and his mother simply nodded.
    That night, Jin heard his mother crying, and shortly after, his father shouting. They never fought.
    The next night, Jin slipped out of his room, wrote them a note, and left for Chongqing, the nearest major city. The city was filled with people looking for work, and they weren’t kind to newcomers. The lines were long, and assuming you were tough enough to muscle your way into line, you were rarely hired.
    Jin