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scuffle.  Exclamations
of discord.  Boots scraping the pavement.  I pry my eyes open and
locate the source.  One ragged figure hits another over the shoulder with
a metal lid, causing him to fall sideways and scramble away.  Still others
are tugging on opposite ends of a jacket, each trying to take it from the
other.  The fabric starts to tear in the middle.  Another grave
robber is running away with old shoes, being chased by more beggars.  Two
are stripping the corpse of its pants.  As one of them peels the pant legs
off of the stiff appendages, another one is already rifling through the
pockets, searching for anything of value.  I sit up with a start,
wondering if I should jump into the fray, but whatever there was of value is
already long gone.  So this is what happens when someone dies.
    I realize quickly that I don't want to know what happens to the
body.  I struggle to my feet and hobble off, leaving the chaotic scene
behind me.
    I spend the day collecting refuse once again.  This time I
decide to make the extra effort of taking several trips back to the recycler in
the hopes of concealing my income from the old woman.  However, on the
first trip I realize the futility when I notice her sitting in the mouth of a
nearby alleyway, where she can see what happens in the marketplace.  She
must sit there all day, a jackal watching for prey.  This is how she knows
exactly how much money I make.  And probably how much money others make as
well.  I try to think of an alternative way to sell my goods, but there is
none.  I have to make peace with the idea that I cannot hide my income
from the old woman.  She will take everything from me, except for that one
coin, if she is feeling generous.  This will happen every day.  One
coin is all I will ever have.  One coin to buy a small, crumbling, stale
cake that will not make up the energy I've lost trying to find things to sell.
    I can't stand the idea that, after all my effort, I'll have no
more than I have now.  I will have nothing to save.  No way out of
this life.  This is unacceptable.  I cannot continue down this
path.  I have an alternative.  I don't like it, but it's better than
rotting in this rut.
    I take to the quietest back alleys in my search for things to
sell.  I walk silently.  I pause and listen.  Hunting vermin is
not easy, but the rewards are better than any I've found so far.  I
reserve one of my sacks for rat meat, and fill the other two with trash. 
When I return to the camp that night, I eat three rats.  I feel almost
full for the first time I can remember.  And I have one coin tucked into
my clothes.  The next night I have two coins.  The night after that,
three.  I reuse the poultice on my foot.  It's not as potent, but it
still seems to help, and the swelling is going down, the redness disappearing. 
On the fourth day, I realize that rat hunting does not bother me as much as it
did before.  It's becoming normal.  I can almost ignore the smell of
blood.
    During this time, I continue to keep my eyes and ears open. 
I catch occasional glimpses of the two mysterious young men I saw walking
together, and sometimes-- probably too often-- I follow them.  They seem
to have a deal with some of the merchants in the marketplace.  But I learn
that they are not the only exceptions to the rule.  There are other small
groups of loners that walk the Outpost untouched.  They also look
dangerous, and probably are.  This is how they survive.  They're too
much trouble to be worth the effort.  One day I watch a group of three sit
on the edge of the sidewalk sharing a lunch of bread and cheese.  All
three of them are armed to the teeth.  Two of them seem to defer to the
third.  She is young, built broad and stocky, and I think she could
probably take a boy in a fight.  There's a fierce glow in her eyes that
reminds me of the old woman.  I immediately dislike her because of
this.  But I watch her as much as I can.  I study