(https://drive.google.com/file/d/1UonwZERrmLHe3FDbF4Xu-MHDxj9dmhEX/view?usp=sharing until 4:00!)

They're a kid, first of all. Tiny, tiny in stature - not even standing hip-height with most of the adults around them. The first thing they note is the gnawing hunger in their stomach, all-encompassing. It's hard to think past that already, but they smile anyway, and the people around them notice how content they seem to be in spite of how dirty they look.

They're scolded and spooked from the stores they poke for scraps around, and even when they're shooed off like a rat, they don't feel any ill intent. There's no malice in their bones, no anger in their heart, even as they sweat through the summer heat and freeze through the winter with an empty belly. Outside of this placid contentment, the only other strong feeling is terror - a genuine fear for their life, in the moment when they've got to fight off a dog to keep their half-eaten meal. They cry in pain when it bites into their arm, but no one on the street stops to help them. The man to whom the dog belongs only says, "good thing it was just a little beggar", and they're left with the bun they'd dropped on the ground.

But after the fear fades - they're able once more to find something good, here. The bun is still warm. It's still tasty. They don't care that they were bitten over it, that their arm still hurts, that it was just the dregs of someone else's lunch which would have gone to rot if they weren't here to take it. In this moment, it's a good meal. It makes their stomach hurt a little less and it, like every other small scrap of happiness they can cling to, is something they treasure greatly.