In a private room, a woman works tirelessly, altering damaged clothing. There are pants for a man who wants to hide scars, a vest for a girl who needs to feel safe, a wool cape to swoop over the shoulders of one who carries the weight. I enter the room and notice the woman is held together with safety pins and tiny fibers that have attached to her skin and look like glue. There are small lines that look like stitches that hold her dress to her body. She looks at me and the scarf in my hand. She hums with a needle pursed between her lips, pausing to say with her eyes, I cannot fix this. She takes my scarf and wraps it around my neck, holding the ends of it in her hands.