Darmana was a very small woman—under five feet, less than ninety pounds—but she stood tall as the two men approached her. Behind her, forty other women, including several who were barely into their teens, shrank back. However, Darmana stood firm, arms wide as if she could shield the other workers from what was coming.

A few men—employed in the same factory to carry and package the heavy boxes of sneakers, sweatshirts, and other branded items—hung at the fringes of the group. They looked ready to run, and more than half of them had already deserted the protest.

And Darmana held fast.

One of the two men wore a lightweight gray business suit that probably cost as much as she made in a year. He wore a crisp white shirt and striped red-and-gray tie. A very expensive-looking gold wristwatch caught bits of sunlight as his arms moved. He had thinning hair, brushed to conceal the paucity, and gold-rimmed steel glasses. He was smiling in the wrong kind of way for what was happening.

“He’s from the corporation,” murmured a woman behind her. “He’s come to fire us.”

That sent a ripple of nervous chatter through the group, but Darmana shushed them.

“He doesn’t have police with him,” she said. “None of those thugs, either. Let’s hear what he has to say.”

Her eyes, though, flicked to the other man. The other was not one of the factory managers or supervisors. He was a stranger to her. He did not wear a suit and tie. Or even a sports shirt, which was better suited to the oppressive heat. Instead, he was dressed head to toe in loose-fitting black clothes that looked like something a soldier might wear, except there were no emblems or insignia. No weapons, either.

The men walked slowly toward her. Two more men dressed in the same black clothes leaned against a dark SUV, muscular arms folded across their chests, eyes hidden behind sunglasses.

“Just be calm,” said Darmana quietly. “Maybe they’ve come to talk.”

This was day six of the shutdown. Darmana and her supporters had used chains, ropes, even plastic zip ties to seal the doors to the factory. For one glorious day, everyone was behind her. All eighty-eight workers, and even two of the shift supervisors, though they were likely spies sent to learn about the new union’s plans.