Buttonholes are slow, difficult work. In the summer, the light is good but the heat wrinkles the cloth and makes my palms sweaty. In the winter, the light is so thin I find myself with my face in the cloth, squinting. My dreams now are of an accident: another girl nudges my chair, or Abigail leans in suddenly, and my hand slips; the last thing I see is the needle aimed for my eye. And then I awaken, sweating with terror, not at the pain but at the dark.
“Your Tim not coming for the holidays?”
I blink my eyes rapidly until they can focus on Abigail’s plump, rosy face, and shake my head. Not for my birthday, not for the holidays, perhaps not ever again.
All his promises. I can’t even think about it.
“Pity,” Abigail says. “But good on him, getting accepted to university. Your mother must
