In the sweltering backstreets of Bangkok’s Din Daeng district, a man named Surasak Nimit lived with a small, battered iron that had been his companion for more than a decade. To most, an iron was nothing but a tool. To Surasak, it was his survival, his livelihood, and sometimes, his torment. The hiss of steam, the scent of scorched cotton, the weight in his palm—these were the rhythms of his days.