The lid to the sewing basket was broken, a hinge fell of years ago. Inside the basket were sparse spools of black and white cotton – sturdy and good for mending. Luke, twelve years-old, a practiced hand at Frankenstein stitches, sat cross-legged on the cold and drafty floor. His tongue protruded. One eye closed, the other squinted as he attempted to thread the needle. He missed … again. A breath of frustration escaped his lips, shifting brown, shaggy hair that fell jaggedly over his eyes.