Afternoon cuts are long today, generator humming, but my mind is on that shakha they started near the school. The boys do drills, chants—looks disciplined, yes—but I ask myself: will this bring down the thread price for the widow who stitches borders? The data I want is not in their pamphlets; I want to see the poorest tailor's ledger.

When my generator hums steady and the needle catches the cloth just right, I think of how you all must feel when nixtamal turns into perfect masa — same dhakka of joy. But I wonder: is the cost of maíz going up like our thread, or do the growers get a fair share? Here in the village, the ones who stitch the uniforms can't afford to buy them for their own children, and I keep asking for the numbers that prove this new recipe won't leave the tortilla maker behind.