The smell of roasted garlic was heavy for six in the morning, but it did not hide the way Zhou Liang clung to the edge of the laminate kitchen counter to stay upright. She stood by the stove, her face pale under the fluorescent light, stirring a pot of chicken broth.
Marcus Liang sat on the wooden stool by the door, tugging hard on the laces of his work boots. He tapped his gold wedding ring against the metal eyelet of his boot, a quiet habit that usually calmed his mind.
“You should sit down, Zhou,” Marcus said, clearing his throat before he spoke.
“I am just tired from the early shift, Marcus, please do not worry,” she said, using her familiar short, reassuring tone.
Marcus bent over to double-knot his left boot, his eyes fixed on the floor.
While his head was down, Zhou turned her back to him, picked up a glass from the sink, and filled it to the brim with tap water. She drank it in three long, desperate gulps, her throat working hard, then immediately filled it again and drank that too. By the time Marcus straightened up, she had swallowed a third glass and wiped her lips with the back of her sleeve, breathing heavily.
She stumbled slightly as she reached for a wooden spoon, but she quickly caught herself against the refrigerator door.
“Just a little dizzy from the steam,” she murmured, rubbing her temples.
By mid-morning, the rhythmic hum of the heavy weaving looms filled the weaver room at the Gaston Textile Mill, vibrating right through the floorboards. Marcus had come up from the machine shop to check a squeaking belt on loom number four, his eyes searching the aisle for his wife.
Thomas Ridley, the mill owner, walked the concrete floor with his hands in his pockets, his slow, booming drawl carrying over the machinery. He stopped beside Zhou, who was threading a warp bobbin with stiff, jerky movements.
“You are keeping those looms moving fast today, Zhou,” Thomas said, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to polish his gold-rimmed glasses. “We need every yard we can get for the autumn shipping run.”
