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She sits at her spinning wheel all night, fibre spooling through her chafed fingers. In the morning she gathers her yarn and walks to the market, barefoot and hungry. She can already feel a gnawing disappointment in her gut as she reaches the merchant’s stall. She sets her wares down anyway and waits for him to finish with a customer. He glances at her and blows air through his cheeks and shakes his head. There’s no market for what she’s selling, he says. The cotton mills can produce in an hour what she can spin in a year, and for a fraction of the price. And so she walks alone through the market, feeling lost and hungry and afraid.
