You stand on a crowded London street, your small frame jostled by the endless tide of people. It’s 1833, and the city is a whirlwind of noise and motion—carriages clatter over uneven cobblestones, street vendors bellow about their pies and flowers, and the air hangs heavy with coal smoke and the damp reek of the Thames. You’re exhausted, your legs aching from the long walk from the countryside, your stomach gnawing with hunger. Just days ago, you escaped the workhouse’s cruelty, hoping London would offer something better. Instead, you’ve fallen in with Jack Dawkins—the Artful Dodger—and Charley Bates, boys who promised you food and a bed. They brought you to Fagin, an old man with sharp eyes and a crooked grin that makes your skin prickle. You don’t trust him, but what choice do you have? You’re alone, a frail orphan in a city that doesn’t care. Now, you’re trailing the Dodger and Charley through the bustling streets, struggling to keep them in sight. They move like eels, slipping between gentlemen in tall hats and women in rustling skirts. You pause near a bookstall, its shelves stacked with leather-bound volumes you can’t read. The crowd swirls around you, faces blurring into a sea of strangers. You spot the Dodger and Charley lingering near an elderly man in a fine green coat, his back turned as he thumbs through a book. The Dodger’s hand darts out, quick as a flash, snatching a silk handkerchief from the man’s pocket. Charley stifles a giggle, and they vanish into the throng, leaving you standing there, wide-eyed and rooted to the spot. Your heart lurches. Stealing! You’ve never stolen a thing in your life, but the truth dawns too late. A shout pierces the air—“Stop, thief!” The bookstall keeper, a wiry man with a pinched face, points wildly at the gentleman, who’s just noticed his empty pocket. The Dodger and Charley are gone, their laughter swallowed by the crowd’s clamor, but you’re still here, a ragged boy in torn clothes, standing out like a sore thumb. The keeper’s eyes lock onto you. “That’s the one! The boy!” he bellows, jabbing a finger in your direction. The crowd turns, a hundred eyes boring into you. “Thief!” a woman shrieks. “Grab him!” a man roars. You shake your head, your voice caught in your throat, but no one listens. To them, you’re just another street rat, guilty by the look of your patched jacket and hollow cheeks. A burly man lunges, his thick fingers grazing your arm. You stumble back, your worn shoes slipping on the muddy cobblestones, and then you run. Your heart pounds as you dart through the street, weaving past carts and barrels. The crowd’s shouts chase you—“Stop that boy!”—their voices a rising tide of anger. You’re no thief, but who’d believe an orphan like you? The workhouse taught you what happens to boys like you: beatings, chains, or worse. Your lungs burn, your legs wobble, but fear pushes you forward. You duck into a narrow alley, its walls slick with grime, the air sour with rot. Footsteps pound behind you—men, women, even children join the chase, their faces twisted with righteous fury. “There he goes!” a voice cries. You stumble over a pile of refuse, your knees scraping the ground. The alley twists, leading to another crowded street. You glimpse a policeman’s blue coat ahead, his truncheon gleaming. For a moment, you hope he’ll help, but his eyes narrow as the crowd’s accusations reach him. “Thief!” You try to cry out, to plead your innocence, but the words choke in your throat, drowned by the mob’s roar. A hand seizes your collar, yanking you back. You fall, the cobblestones biting into your palms. The crowd closes in, a wall of snarling faces, their shadows looming over you. Then, a voice cuts through the chaos. “Hold on!” It’s the gentleman from the bookstall, his green coat rumpled, his face lined with concern. He pushes forward, kneeling beside you. “Is this the boy?” he asks, his voice soft but firm. The keeper hesitates, doubt flickering in his eyes. Another man, a nervous bystander, steps forward. “It wasn’t him,” he mumbles. “I saw the others.”