The girl didn’t look up. Her small fingers carefully guided a faded blue fabric beneath the needle, her jaw set in a concentration far too heavy for someone her age.
“Where’s your mother?” he asked, realizing too late that he’d spoken aloud.
The girl flinched. The machine sputtered to a stop. Slowly, she raised her eyes—eyes dulled by exhaustion, far older than they should have been.
“She’s sick,” she said softly. “Please… I just need to finish this seam.”
Michael scanned the room. A thin mattress on the floor. A pot resting on a stove that hadn’t been used. No toys. No television. Just neatly stacked scraps of fabric beside the machine.
“What are you making?” he asked.
“Dresses,” she replied. “For a store on Cedar Avenue. They pay per piece.”
Something tightened in his chest. “You shouldn’t have to be doing this.”
Her fingers clenched around the fabric. “If I don’t, we won’t eat.”
A cough echoed from the back room—deep, wet, and weak. Michael took a step forward, then stopped. He understood hardship only in theory. In charts. In margins.
“I’m here about the rent,” he said, hating how formal it sounded.