"Welcome," Robert said. "Let me show you around." 

Over the next few days, Robert introduced Thomas to the community. They visited families in their homes. They sat on porches and listened to stories. They went to the community church on Sunday, where Pastor Williams welcomed them warmly. 

Thomas met the Johnsons, a family of five living in a two-room house, the father disabled from a mill accident, surviving on the mother's part-time cleaning work and community charity. He met old Mrs. Patterson, the elementary school teacher who spent her own meager salary buying supplies for students whose families couldn't afford notebooks and pencils. He met Lucy, a young single mother working at the mill, whose daughter had chronic asthma that she couldn't afford to treat properly. 

And of course, he spent time with Margaret and Sarah. Sarah, now ten years old and thriving thanks to her mother's better job and Robert's support, showed Thomas her schoolwork, her drawings, her dreams of becoming a doctor someday. 

"Why a doctor?" Thomas asked her. 

"Because then I can help people like Mr. Robert was helped. People who are sick but don't have money for hospitals. I want to make sure everyone gets taken care of, not just rich people." 

The simple statement hit Thomas harder than he expected. From the mouth of a ten-year-old came an indictment of everything he'd built his career on. The idea that healthcare, security, opportunity—these were luxuries for those who could afford them, not rights for everyone. 

On the third day, Robert took Thomas to the Magnolia Ridge Cotton Mill. They arrived early, at 5:30 in the morning when the first shift started. Thomas had been to mills before, of course. He'd done inspections, attended board meetings, reviewed reports. But he'd always come as an executive, given tours by nervous managers, shown only what they wanted him to see, and staying in air-conditioned offices far from the factory floor. 

This time was different. Robert had arranged, using his authority as founder, for Thomas to work a full shift on the processing line. No advance notice to management, no special treatment, just work. 

Thomas was given cotton work clothes, safety goggles, and ear protection. He was assigned to the same section where Margaret had worked before getting her new job. The foreman, not knowing who Thomas really was, gave him brusque instructions: "Keep up with the line. Don't slow down. Don't take breaks except during scheduled break time. Questions?" 

"No," Thomas said, and his voice sounded uncertain even to himself. 

The machinery started. The noise was overwhelming, even with ear protection. The heat was oppressive, despite it being December. Within an hour, Thomas's back ached from standing. Within two hours, his hands cramped from the repetitive motions. By the scheduled break at noon, he was exhausted in a way he'd never experienced. 

The break was fifteen minutes. Thomas collapsed onto a bench outside, gulping water, his shirt soaked with sweat. The other workers, not knowing who he was, treated him like any new hire. One older man, Frank, offered him an extra sandwich. 

"First day's always the hardest," Frank said kindly. "You'll get used to it eventually." 

"How long have you worked here?" Thomas asked. 

"Twenty-three years. Started when I was nineteen. I'll probably die here, too." Frank said it matter-of-factly, without self-pity, just stating a fact of his life. 

"Don't you ever think about doing something else?" 

Frank laughed. "Like what? This is the only job in town that pays regular. I've got three kids to feed, a mortgage on a house that's falling apart, and a wife who's got diabetes. I can't afford to do something else." 

During the break, Thomas heard other workers talking. Complaining about the heat, about the noise, about the long hours. But also talking about their lives, their families, their small joys. Plans for Christmas, even though most couldn't afford much. Hope for their children's futures, even though those futures looked uncertain. These weren't labor units or line items in a budget. They were people with names and families and dreams. People whose suffering generated the profits he'd been so proud of. 

The afternoon shift was even worse. Thomas's initial exhaustion deepened into something close to despair. His body screamed for rest. His hands were red and sore. His back felt like it was on fire. And he had earned, for eight hours of labor, $34 before taxes. 

When the shift finally ended, Thomas could barely walk to the car where Robert was waiting. 

"How was it?" Robert asked gently. 

Thomas didn't answer immediately. He just sat in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead, his hands still trembling from the repetitive work. Finally, he spoke, his voice rough. 

"I couldn't do that every day. I couldn't do it for a week. And these people do it for years, for decades, for that wage." 

"Yes," Robert said simply. 

"Why don't they leave? Why don't they find other work?" 

"Where else is there, Thomas? This is the only real employer in this region. They work here or they starve. That's not a choice. That's coercion dressed up as free-market economics." 

Thomas was quiet for a long time. "Then I need to go back to my apartment. I need to think." 

"All right. But tomorrow I want you to do it again." 

Thomas looked at his father with something like horror. "Again?" 

"You worked one shift. Margaret worked this job for five years. Lucy's been working it for seven. Frank for twenty-three. One shift isn't enough to understand. Tomorrow you go back." 

Thomas worked at the mill for three more days. Each day was just as hard as the first. Each day he came back exhausted, aching, humbled. And each day he understood more deeply what his business model was really built on.