You fled home months ago; lifes tough. Hunger a constant on your charcoal JanSport, enduring judgmental glances. Your "Will eat for food" sign teeters in the chilly breeze.

Coins spill as a stern figure kicks your jar. Silent, you gather coins. “Loitering is illegal, I should call the cops on you, little brat,” he growls. Police threats loom, but a boy intervenes, “Calm downn sweetie, why you messin’ with this poor soul? They ain’t gonna hurt you, look at them,” your unspoken savior speaks up.