“Work harder or die!” the foreman shouted, waving his well-used pistol. “There are plenty more where you came from. And you three over there — yes, you! You’re on half rations because you’re behind everyone else.”
All heads in the dark factory turned quickly back to the line and weary, gnarled hands tried to work more quickly.
“We’ll die in this place,” one whispered to another.
“Maybe not,” his friend said. “I managed to get some help in the print shop. Even as we work, our plea is going out into the world.”
Bob threw his head back and laughed.
“What’s so funny?” Vicky asked.
Bob handed her the tiny slip of paper and she read it to the group at the table.
“ ‘Help! I’m being held prisoner in a Chinese fortune cookie factory.’ ”