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say nothing.  If I say
anything, I will explode. 
    "More than this tomorrow, if you want to keep one to eat
with," she scolds as she trudges off.  "Work faster.  You
can make more."
    A single coin to my name, I must make the choice between eating
and treating my wound.  I take a moment in the alley to inspect the red,
swollen gash on my foot, and decide it has to be the wound.  My stomach
rolls over in protest.  I limp out of the alleyway and locate the herb
peddler.  She’s a middle-aged woman with graying hair and a square
face.  There are fine lines around her eyes and mouth, and a mark like
mine on her forehead.  Something about her is deeply sad.  She sits
cross-legged on the edge of a blanket that is covered in little bundles of
dried plant matter, all neatly labeled.  I stop warily a few feet off,
keeping my hood pulled down across my face as I try to read the labels. 
Her gaze flicks up to me, but she shows no other reaction.  I see the
bundle I want, point to it, and hold up a coin for her to see.  What if
she refuses to sell to me?  I steel myself to dig in my heels and be
stubborn again if it’s necessary. 
    It is not.  She rises to her knees to reach the bundle and
tosses it to me.  I toss the coin onto the blanket in front of her. 
Her fingers scoop it up and pocket it while I retrieve the poultice that landed
at my feet.  I tuck it into my clothing and hobble away.  A lump
rises in my throat as I go.  I am so grateful that something was simple. 
Just one simple thing.
    Rather than return to the fire barrels, I follow the back streets
into a more deserted part of the Outpost and find a vacant alleyway that has a
sizable puddle of water.  I soak the bundle of herbs in the water, then
lean against a wall and press the poultice against my wound.  After only a
moment I feel some relief.  I didn't realize exactly how painful my foot
has been until now, with some of the torment fading.  I sigh, and close my
eyes.  I’m exhausted.  I could fall asleep easily, but I can’t sleep
here.  There is a kind of safety in being with the other beggars that
doesn’t exist here, alone in this alley.  I’ll need to make my way back
before darkness comes completely.  But even in the lengthening shadows of
the evening, I feel a vague sense of peace at being alone, away from
everyone.  A rare moment of privacy.  Sharp on its heels is a feeling
of profound loneliness. 
    Bitterly, I think of the old woman who is blackmailing me. 
Despite the rage and disgust I feel at what she’s doing, there is also a tug of
nostalgia as I think back on our conversation.  She’s the only person who
has really spoken to me.  Ever.  She’s the only one who sees me . 
I laugh-- a short, sharp laugh.  How pitiful have I become?  Surely I
was never like this before.  Again, I remember the cries of the flower
peddlers.  I tremble.  Something dangerous occurs to me.  Why
not find myself?  Is death so much worse than this?  For the briefest
moment I entertain the idea, as though it could really be that simple, then
push it away quickly.  Focus on rearranging the poultice.  Poke at
the gash in my foot.  Concentrate on the pain.  Feel the aching
weariness in my body.  The deep, unsated hunger in my stomach.  There
will be no food tonight, I tell myself, and hold fast to the unpleasantness of
the thought.
    In the dipping shadows I hear first, and then see, a small,
darting movement.  I yank myself back against the wall as the rat runs by
me.  It stops at a pile of trash only a couple of yards away, picking
through the filth.  Its eyes are tiny circles, its belly fur wet with
something unpleasant, its tail a pink, dragging, tentacle of fleshy
rings.  I recoil automatically, but then, something else takes over. 
Something entirely unpleasant, but necessary.  My fingers ease around my
metal bar.  I raise it slowly, ever so slowly.  My eyes are on the
rat.  Its eyes are on me.  But it is hungry