His attention locked onto the woman who appeared in the doorway. She stepped out into the sunlight, carrying a heavy crate. Her bare body glistened with sweat, her hair tousled by the sun and work. As she emerged from the greenhouse’s humid, warm interior, her bare feet touched the dusty, grassy ground outside. With each step, her feet gently sank into the soft, damp soil, which still retained the coolness of the night’s dew.

The driver’s gaze fixed on her feet as she carefully navigated the uneven terrain. Blades of grass and fine specks of dirt clung to her skin immediately, yet she seemed unbothered by it. It was as if, with every step, she consciously sought to feel the cold, grounding touch of the earth beneath her—a small relief from the sweltering heat of the greenhouse.

The driver let out a quiet sigh as he stepped out of the truck. The dry ground crunched beneath his shoes, but his eyes remained on the woman, who was clearly struggling under the weight of the crate. A faint trace of empathy crossed his face—he pitied her for enduring such hard labor, especially as the marks of exhaustion and abrasions on her body were starkly visible.

As the woman set the crate down onto a pile, she straightened up and briefly met his gaze. The driver offered her a slightly awkward nod, as if trying to convey both familiarity and courage. Her face, however, remained expressionless, giving him only a fleeting glance before turning back to her work.

The driver sighed again, moving to the back of the truck to prepare the cargo. Even as he worked, his eyes kept drifting back to the woman, whose naked body and graceful movements seemed to radiate both weariness and a natural, instinctive beauty. Every detail—the contact of her soles with the earth, the glistening sweat on her skin, and the hidden strength behind her gestures—had a peculiar effect on him.

 

The driver stepped into the greenhouse, and the oppressive, hot air inside immediately hit him. The humid warmth clung to his skin like a heavy blanket, and the combined scent of plants and damp soil was almost suffocating. But alongside this distinctive mix came another, far more unpleasant smell—the raw, potent aroma of sweat-drenched bodies, unmasked by anything.

In the center of the greenhouse stood the boss, barking orders at a woman who was on her hands and knees, cleaning up the remnants of the fallen tomatoes. The woman’s dirty, sweaty skin glistened under the light, her bare feet pressing into the damp soil, which clung between her toes. Her ankles bore visible abrasions, reddened even more by the sheen of sweat.

“Faster, you useless thing! How many days are you planning to crawl around on the ground?” the boss bellowed, his tone harsh as he gripped a metal rod, occasionally slapping it against his palm in agitation. The woman trembled as she worked, but her voice was meek and submissive as she replied, “I’m trying, sir… I’m almost done.”

The driver hesitated, his eyes catching on the abrasions on the woman’s ankles before shifting back to the boss’s face, which showed not a shred of sympathy.

“What’s going on here?” the driver asked, his voice deep and cool. The boss turned to him with a startled expression, as though he hadn’t expected to be interrupted.

“Ah, finally, you’re here! Did you bring the papers?” the boss said, attempting to change the subject. But the driver’s gaze remained fixed on the woman.

“To be honest, the papers aren’t my main concern right now. These women... they look quite filthy. And this one here...” he gestured toward the woman on the ground. “The wounds on her ankles don’t look like ordinary work injuries. Have they been shackled?”

The boss’s face darkened, and he snorted in irritation. “Stop with the wild accusations, man! These women work hard, and sometimes they get injured. That’s all there is to it.”

The driver furrowed his brow and stepped closer. “There are clear rules regarding the condition of laborers. For example, there’s the daily washing requirement. Where is the hygiene log? Among the papers, I only see vaccination records—there’s no sign of proper sanitation oversight.”

The boss coughed awkwardly, his unease visible as he rubbed his jaw. “Well, the last hygiene log… it’s, uh, gone missing. But I can assure you, we follow every rule.”

The driver narrowed his eyes. “Missing papers don’t change the facts. Look at these women! The smell of their sweat tells me they haven’t showered properly in days. And don’t try to deny that this one here,” he pointed to the cleaning woman, “may have been shackled. Or is there a prison near the greenhouses where they spend their nights?”

The boss’s face flushed red, and his grip on the metal rod tightened as he began twirling it in his hand. “Don’t talk nonsense! There are no shackles, no prisons, and these women work here willingly. Whatever you’re imagining, I don’t care.”

But the driver wasn’t letting it go. He leaned closer to the boss and spoke quietly but firmly. “That woman’s ankles tell a different story. And if I’m right, it won’t just be these papers—you’ll be in serious trouble, too.”

The boss clenched his jaw tightly, staring at the driver before abruptly turning back to the papers, as though he wanted to end the conversation. Meanwhile, the cleaning woman continued her task in silence, though the trembling of her hands betrayed that she had heard every word.