Lin plunges the sharp needle into the ocean of fabric stretched across the table before her. She knows what to do, she has done it day after day for a year. No breaks. She watches the delicate waves of thread situate along the edges of the rouge canvas as she creates her masterpiece. A bead of sweat gently rolls down her forehead and cheek. From a distance, it could be mistaken for a tear, but those would come later tonight as the hunger eats away at her stomach.

“您为什么哭泣?” (Why are you crying?) her boss says in a thick Yunnan accent as more of a threat than a question. She wipes away the wetness, not knowing whether it was a tear or sweat. The man slaps her, his calloused hand stinging against her soft face.

She says nothing.
She does nothing.

She continues manufacturing the red shower curtains, because if she were to leave the sweat shop, her little brother would not eat tonight.

True Love ‘Made in China’.