\u201cWhere is your mother?\u201d Victor asked before he could stop himself.<\/p>\n
The girl flinched. The machine stuttered to a stop. Slowly, she raised her eyes. They were dull with fatigue, too old for her face.<\/p>\n
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\u201cShe\u2019s sick,\u201d the girl said softly. \u201cPlease\u2026 I just need one more seam.\u201d<\/p>\n
Victor\u2019s 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.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat are you sewing?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cDresses,\u201d she said. \u201cFor the shop on Cedar Street. They pay per piece.\u201d<\/p>\n
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His throat tightened. \u201cYou shouldn\u2019t be doing this.\u201d<\/p>\n
The girl\u2019s fingers curled around the cloth. \u201cIf I don\u2019t, we don\u2019t eat.\u201d<\/p>\n
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