We’re doing our washing in the fountain in the centre of the mall, rubbing soap powder into buckets of clothes, churning a ton of cotton with mops, when Rachel shrieks and clutches the bottom of her spine and lets go of her mop handle.
All the girls look at me, afraid. There hasn’t been new life here in ages. This is frightening for them.
‘What is it? Baby?’
‘Too soon, ngulp.’ She swallows the pain, shuffles a few inches, resumes pressing some kid’s underwear against the washboard. ‘Never mind.’
ngulpI tip a bucket of Corey’s gross stinky boxer shorts into the water and start churning them with my mop, giving them their mandatory three minutes before pulling them out to give to one of the girls, Karen, to squeeze before it’s rinsed. The water I’m stewing these clothes in is black and f
