“Where is your mother?” Victor asked before he could stop himself.

The girl flinched. The machine stuttered to a stop. Slowly, she raised her eyes. They were dull with fatigue, too old for her face.

“She’s sick,” the girl said softly. “Please… I just need one more seam.”

Victor’s gaze traveled around the room. A thin mattress in the corner. A pot on a cold stove. No toys. No television. Just fabric scraps stacked neatly beside the machine.

“What are you sewing?” he asked.

“Dresses,” she said. “For the shop on Cedar Street. They pay per piece.”

His throat tightened. “You shouldn’t be doing this.”

The girl’s fingers curled around the cloth. “If I don’t, we don’t eat.”