I leaned on the policewoman for a long time, her quiet presence steadying me until the image of Grandma being killed by that wolf-like man jolted me awake.

The Vitasoy was empty.
I pulled back my hand and looked up: “Let’s do the statement.”

I was used to this process.
The policewoman smiled faintly, pulling a small notebook from her pocket.

I told her everything—how I’d threatened him with a knife, but only because he’d invaded my home.

I wouldn’t go to jail.
Finally, she asked: “Zhixia, have you heard of welfare homes?”

I blinked: “I don’t qualify.”

I’d known about welfare homes for ages, but they required a ton of paperwork.
I had nothing, and I needed to guard my and Grandma’s home, so I never dwelled on it.

She pursed her lips, took out her wallet, and pulled out a 50-yuan note—the largest bill in there.
She pressed it into my hand: “A small gesture. Keep it safe, don’t lose it.”

Surprised, I clutched it, stood, and bowed slightly: “Thank you, you’re very kind.”

Grandma taught me to thank people properly when they gave money.
If I didn’t, they wouldn’t give again.

Half an hour later, the crowd dispersed, the police left, and I was alone again.

I hid the money by the river, took a bath, and planned to wash my bedsheets, pillowcase, and blanket tomorrow.
I bathed daily, even if my diluted body wash barely lathered—better than that guy who just lay on my bed.

A bed is sacred, healing weary souls.

The next morning, at dawn, I rose early, washed the bedding in the river, hung it to dry, and headed out.
At the night market’s dumpsters, I collected a good haul.
An auntie with a sack approached, and we raced, scavenging bottles and cans from the street.

A quick glance showed my sack was fuller.
My scavenging experience was my only pride.

At noon, I washed yesterday’s leftover greens, wilted and wrinkled from sitting overnight.

My main dish was a 50-cent flatbread, paired with a sealed packet of chili sauce I’d found in the trash, still in-date and safe.

From experience, packaged food was edible within three months past expiration, as long as the seal held and it hadn’t spoiled.

I’d never found sealed food gone bad, and it never made me sick.

At a public restroom, I fetched a basin of water, poured it into a pot, added a few drops of oil, and lit the stove.
Once boiling, I added the greens, then the flatbread and salt when half-cooked.

When fully cooked, I separated the noodles and greens.
Draining excess water, I mixed the noodles with chili sauce.

Slurping a bite: “Mmm, delicious!”
I muttered to myself: “Study cooking well, marry a beauty. To win her heart, win her stomach first, so she’ll help me honor Grandma.”

It was Saturday, so I didn’t carry money.
Word had spread about extorting beggars, and the delinquents from Chengnan High loved targeting me—a lone scavenger with a fixed home, unlike others who roamed.

Scavengers were often withdrawn, never outgoing.
Beggars were bolder, asking everyone for money.

Only disabled beggars earned decently, networking to find the best spots.
But even their earnings were slim—people’s hearts grew colder.
I’d seen the worst: a normal kid lying on the ground, an old lady wailing nearby.

When she tired, they’d switch—the kid cried at a new spot, she lay “suffering” or slept.
Seeing this too often dulled my heart.
Fake beggars ruined it for real ones like me.

Delinquents from Chengnan High and Jinan Junior High grew bolder, robbing even disabled beggars’ hard-earned money at night.

So, I didn’t beg.
It was more lucrative than scavenging but riskier.

Grandma only took me begging when I was little.
Once we settled here, she never let me beg or used me to gain pity.

She taught me to face life’s hardships, shared knowledge beyond textbooks, and showed me how to be good.

That’s how I stumbled through to thirteen, when she left me.

My nose stung.
I shifted focus.
Saturday streets buzzed with groups of teenage girls, their clothes vibrant, hair long or short, all radiant.

These girls my age confused me—blossoming flowers.
I wanted to befriend them, maybe even fall in love, kissing like in the movies.

In those scenes, kissing led to bed, the heroine undressing.
Then the screen cut to them making breakfast together or waking shoulder-to-shoulder.

What happened in between?

It thrilled me to wonder.

Three average-looking girls approached, glancing at me.
My girlish face didn’t spark much disdain, but they still veered slightly to avoid me.

Watching them leave, I inhaled their lingering scent—one had just washed her hair, the faint shampoo stirring my heart.

“Is she a beggar girl?”

“She looks our age.”

“Probably family troubles.”

I snapped back, moving on.
I didn’t dare talk to them.
Marrying a beauty was a fantasy—I was a filthy beggar, unworthy of swans.

I loved watching beautiful girls; they were a sight.
But I couldn’t squat all day staring—they had parents; I didn’t.
I kept scavenging.

Through gaps in the trash, I spotted a box of takoyaki with holes, still holding one or two balls.

Ignoring the sour-smelling garbage, I grabbed the box.
Inside, one whole takoyaki and half a bitten one, a wooden stick still in it.

Delighted, I ate the whole one.

Around me, people munched on priced snacks.
I had nearly 100 yuan but didn’t dare buy five- or ten-yuan treats.
My gas was running low—if I ran out in winter, I’d have to bathe in the river.

A small gas canister cost 75 yuan.
Last year, frugally, I needed 1.5 canisters for winter.

Gas wasn’t something to skimp on.
I could skip meat, but not vegetables—without them, my health would falter, and I couldn’t afford treatment.

My life was a constant struggle.
Money was always just enough.
Compared to normal people, I barely lived like a person.

Without Grandma’s teachings, I wouldn’t have survived these two years.

I didn’t eat the half takoyaki—it was cold, tasting of steam, but not sour or spoiled.