It's something like this

Throughout the busy market, full of shouting, roaring people, the little children of the street slip in between the gaps between people's legs, swimming through the throng. The ho-ak, they are called, belonging to none and all. They cover both face and body, so nobody knows exactly who they are, recognisable only by their style of dress or head covering. Some are fumblers, pick pockets, thieves. Some are muggers, gangsters, hirees. Some are desperate. Some are hoarders. All have their secrets.

Little Ho-ak Timmy, slips between the moving forest of legs like an eel. He's had a lot of practice in his lifetime. Four years makes him an independent young man, he thinks. His eyes flit and dart every where, hoping that nobody saw that he had slipped out of a trash can, where he had hidden the body of his little sister. She was starting to smell and he wouldn't be visiting her again. He had heard from the other ho-ak that it was easy to catch disease from the dead. It wasn't his fault she was dead. She'd gotten sick.

A nobleman with his horse flicks his whip at the small form when he darts under the horse to snatch a fallen bread crust from the gutter, before disappearing back into the crowd.

A bag whacks Little Ho-ak Timmy in the head, knocking his head wrap askew, so that he can't see properly. Hiding under a stall keeper's table while the man is not looking, Timmy fixed his head wrap up, hoping nobody noticed or saw him. His heart beats as quickly as the rabbits in the cage he is looking at under the table. Their black eyes plead, but he ignores them. Stuffing the bread crust into his mouth, his eyes search for what else might be edible. The stall keeper reaches down and grasps the boy by his shirt, throwing him back out into the roar and crush with a box to the ear that makes Timmy's ear ring. The giant butcher's cleaver threatens him and Timmy takes the hint, escaping into the anonymity of the market crowd.

Timmy hides between sacks of potatoes, wishing they were cooked so that he could eat them. If only he knew how to make a fire, he might be able to cook them, but potatoes are heavy to steal and taste awful raw. Raw potatoes, he knows by experience, can make him sick. Especially the green ones. Between the moving legs, he can see the edge of the market where the foreigners known as the Barbaro have barged into the crowd, chasing down and snatching ho-akak willy nilly, thrusting them into the big cage on wheels. The crowd offers up what ho-akak they can get their hands on to the foreigners in order for themselves and their children to be spared. Those taken by the Barbaro never return and word on the street is that they are sold into slavery in a land that spits fire and where the language twists the tongue into knots. With the Barbaro's presence, the market crowd thins a little and Timmy spots a bright orange thing hidden under a haphazard stack of boxes.

The moment the Barbaro disappear, the market regains its usual liveliness and Timmy throws himself through the legs toward his find. It is a partially rotting orange, but Timmy doesn't hesitate to bite into the good part of the orange, spitting out the rotten bits. He even eats the bitter peel. From his hiding place under a cabbage cart, he watches the on-the-spot employment of another stall keeper hiring a street girl who had been looking for work. The girl immediately changes her hair and headress style to inform passers by that she's now employed and untouchable to all but the worst vagrants and ho-akak.

Looking up to tops of the looming apartments above, he can see the fringes of a marriage ceremony occurring on the sun baked roof tops. The man and woman exchange head scarves and weave the more ornate and colourful cloths into the serious triangles of contract holders that have been cut and bound together. It's a beautiful sight, but the cabbage cart owner has found him now, and to avoid being kicked or whacked with the cabbage man's staff, he scurries back out into the people current, avoiding the people with fancy clothes and veiled faces. They tend to kick really hard.

If only it were easy to find enough good food to fill his stomach. After searching the entire day, Timmy's tummy is still growling like it was this morning. The sun is going down and with the growing shadows comes the cold, evening breeze. There's still the night market that he could contend with, but Timmy is a daytime ho-ak. He's usually too tired by sunset to go out into the more dangerous market place where the gangs like to roam. The ho-ak gangs are merciless and scary anyway. The food he ate today has made him feel sick, throw up and made his bowels run. Then again, it could have been the water he drank from the market fountain. If he were a dog, he might have eaten his own vomit. It was a good thing that a bakery woman had given him a mouldy bun. Once he had picked off the mouldy bits, it had tasted as good as fresh. Just hard to bite.

Joining up with his fellow sleep mates, they run through the alleys, climbing houses and jumping over walls, each taking a different route until they meet up at the giant hollow statue that they have been using as their base, hoping no one else was able to follow them to their hide-out. There, they squeeze in with the other ho-ak boys and girls, so that they can stay warm for the night.

Last night, Timmy had been kicked out, because there was not enough space. That's why he had spent the night by his sister's body. She had been annoying while she was alive, but now... he missed her company. Tonight, he managed to find a nice warm place right inside the statue body and another ho-ak had to go find a trash can or uninhabited crack in a wall to huddle for the night.

Tonight, Timmy prays he will dream of a home where he has parents and a family who love him. He prays for a house, a bed and a full belly.