Everyone asked around and finally found a textile factory in need of workers nearby.
The factory gate was open, with the rhythmic buzzing of textile machines inside, resembling the buzz of mosquitoes.
A tall, skinny man was standing at the door; he was the factory owner, Horace.
His body was as thin as a sheet of paper, dressed in a black suit washed out to a faded white with creases at the collar. His high cheekbones stood out prominently, like two sudden hills, and his small bean-like eyes darted around like abacus beads, radiating shrewdness and calculation, making one reluctant to approach.
This was the last factory "keeping up with the trend," stubbornly resisting the tide of "building dormitories."
If it weren't for the tax officer coming to visit, forcing him to stop feigning ignorance, he would never willingly shell out a penny to build an employee dormitory.
He was eager for all employees to live in the refugee camp, so he could save an extra meal.
