Now, at 3 a.m., with rain tapping the corrugated roof, she held up the finished shirt. It was slate gray with triple-stitched seams, hidden pen pockets along the forearm, and a gusset under each arm for swing space. The fabric was a cotton-nylon blend that wouldn’t melt in a spark shower.
Her phone buzzed. A text from a warehouse supervisor in Duluth: “Need 40 by Friday. Our women are taping their own sleeves again.” work shirt women
Lena traced the label she’d just sewn into the neck: Iron Veil. Now, at 3 a