Petra moved effortlessly among the rows with her brass cutting shears and her burlap sack. She’d spend under thirty seconds at each station: bunch, slash, gather and move on. Efficient and prolific.
They didn’t give her any other options.
Petra wiped her brow. The underground chamber was stifling hot, pitch black. It’d been since the beginning, since they discovered heat and dark are conducive to human hair growth.
But she was grateful to work. Few hired women. Even fewer hired the blind.
Petra paused at the next station, heard the little girl whimper.
She often wished she was deaf too.
The Weekday One Hundred 