Work Horse
Ourfa, Winter 1903
Ferida
Morning. An empty room. The little machine sits forlornly in the middle of a table scattered with plaster dust.
Bang! The door flies open and Ferida comes running in carrying a large piece of cloth. She throws it over the machine, trusses it up into a bundle and carries it outside, elbowing her way past the neighbours and setting it down on the road next to the wagon with an “Ouf!”
Iskender and Khatoun are already seated up front under a blanket with Baby Alice. She’s just three months old and sucking so noisily at the teat, Ferida feels sick.
“Thank you, jan,” Khatoun says smiling down at Ferida over the baby’s snuffling head. “I can’t believe I almost forgot it.”
“Ugheg. It’s alright,” Ferida mutters as she grabs the machine and heaves it up in
