I leaped from one board to the other, those old creaking slabs of wood that stayed here and there in the old abandoned house. I’d gotten used to the leaping exercise, but my heart still leaped in my throat as I wobbled over an abyss of a dark stone pit (the old basement) that lay under the groaning boards.

Finally I found my way to my favorite place: what I called the Shelter. Ironically, the place held the only window, unpaneled of glass and with frames of rotting ceder posts. I had made a little home there, with a tent made of old bedsheets with pillows and blankets carpeting the floor. There I’d placed a battery operated lamp that shone a welcoming warm glow onto the books, old toys and knickknacks I’d collected. Being a Street Rat, a gang of kids who had no homes or parents but instead secretly lived here, I knew how to be tough. I was a rough and tumble kid. I could outsmart police, outrun and trick angry shopkeepers. I could live on two meals a day with snacks. But in my Shelter… I could be myself. I could curl up in my blanket and read my favorite books, fiddle with my favorite toys, and so on.

I loved it there. I spent an hour there today before scavenging.

It wasn’t much, but I had enough.