The sudden storm blew dust from the dirty sand up onto Emelina’s face, but she simply swept her arm across her eyes and continued on, weaving long dried reeds into shape with her suntanned brown fingers. It was 6 o’clock at night but she had no way of knowing that because clocks and time had never mattered to her. The only thing that mattered was production of crafts for the tourists' eager spending; as long as there was enough light to see her hands moving in front of her, Emelina worked.
Her fingers had remained nimble over the many years of creating baskets and hats - for this she was thankful. But when the scorching sun finally set, and the moon took its place in the midnight blue sky, Emelina cried out in pain as she pulled herself upright onto wooden crutches and staggered home on wasted legs.