No answer.

He knocked again. This time, the door creaked open an inch.

Inside, sunlight leaked through a cracked window and landed on a wooden table. At it sat a little girl—no more than nine or ten—hunched over an old sewing machine. Her hair was tangled, her cheeks smudged with grime. A strip of cloth was wrapped around her wrist like a makeshift bandage. The machine rattled with each press of her foot, loud in the quiet room.

Victor froze.

The girl didn’t look up. She guided a piece of blue floral fabric beneath the needle with careful, trembling fingers, her face drawn tight with concentration and exhaustion.