I'm not sure where the girls came from, but we all seemed to agree that we weren't doing anything wrong by freezing them. For my piece, I'd show up and watch the girls until another member of the crew relieved me. During my watch, paranoia seeped in along with a breeze that massaged our small, New York City apartment.
Originally, we ran a successful, albeit stressful, mid-level escort service, operating out of an apartment in the city. Half of us found the girls, and half of us found the johns. It turned out to be a scarier prospect to find escorts than we'd hoped, so, at some point, we decided to freeze them. It didn't seem to be that they were cold, so much as they were preserved.
It wasn't long before the money started coming in, and, with it, the police. The whole business changed from sex trafficking to a constant and diligent watch against getting caught. How do you not reveal illicit activities in a world where the NSA can bug your phone without any physical presence?
After a shift of looking after the girls—never seeing what happened to them behind the closed doors—I'd count the money and wait until a partner would show up. Without phone or internet, it became a game of delirium: quietly watching television and trying not to believe the police were outside the doors.
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