The fluorescent hum of the late afternoon settled over the folding table, smelling faintly of bleach and damp denim. We worked quickly, counting the returns into the overstuffed bin, the rhythmic clink of metal tags marking each pair of socks and every stray belt. There was a specific, almost unsettling warmth emanating from the corner of the bin, making everyone handle the contents with an unexpected care. We know the quota is strict, and the pile always settles at exactly fourteen items, regardless of how many cycles ran that day. You have to count them twice, smoothing the stain on the laminate and straightening the zip ties, because the count must be perfect. It’s a good rhythm, this sorting, a predictable pattern of fabric and forgotten life.
static · tender