Skins
I perch myself on the steel stool beside the worktable—needles, pliers, penknife, and thread spools all laid in a row on its chrome surface. When I press my boot on the foot pedal, the conveyor belt cranks and whirrs, and the morning’s first load of assorted critters rumbles toward me. I start in on a ratty-looking jackrabbit, hoping to keep a steady pace and clock out a little early. It’s Taco Tuesday, and the girls are expecting chimichanga kids meals for dinner.