Hanh glanced up at the long room, the rows of sewing machines.
The black hair of the women hidden by the uniform blue scarves they were required to wear.
The clatter of the needles, the staccato whir of the motors.
Old Tham paced the rows of bowed heads, one eye on the women and the other on the clock.
Beside each worker stood the stack of their completed work.
This week it was Bermuda shorts in festive colors.
Next week it might be khaki trousers or faded denim.
Hanh had never seen anyone wearing any of the clothes she made.
