She wore a jacket far too large for her thin frame, the sleeves rolled up several times and still dangling past her hands. The fabric was heavy with rain, clinging to her like a burden she could not shrug off. Her boots did not match, one cracked at the heel and the other wrapped in layers of tape that barely kept the sole attached. Her hair was plastered to her forehead, her fingers numb and red, yet her eyes remained sharp, scanning the ground with focus learned through necessity.
Hunger had taught her how to move without hesitation.
Hunger had taught her how to ignore pain.
She searched for anything she could sell the next morning, crushed cans, bits of wire, small scraps of metal that others discarded without a thought. Every find meant a few coins, and a few coins meant bread or soup or maybe a hot drink if she was lucky. As she worked, she whispered to herself, promising that she would stop after the next good find, as if words alone could push exhaustion away.
She had not eaten since the previous morning, but her thoughts were already drifting toward dawn. Morning meant the street vendors near Harbor Avenue, and the vendors meant dropped change. Change meant survival.