Dave Wright Writes

  Sadie Pfiefer by Dave Wright Nine-year-old Sadie Pfiefer is at her place in the cotton mill. It’s six a.m. A steam whistle shrieks. A single light bulb hanging over the hall dims as the colossal looming machine rumbles to life. The South Carolina heat has already invaded the textile factory. Flecks of cotton stick to Sadie’s hand as she pieces together the first broken thread of the day. She wipes the back of her hand on her dress, a rag that has been handed down to her by four older sisters. Hundreds of bobbins spin like a parade of ballet dancers. She approaches a spindle that has lost its pirouette a few feet down the row. A strand of cotton thread hangs loose from the spool above it. Wisps of cotton flutter over the floor. The noise is deafening. As Sadie pulls the stalled bobbin from its place and pieces the thread together, the foreman rushes past her with a snort. She tries to hold her breath. He smells like Pappy—a rank combination of sweat, onions, and beer. They call h