After the brief satisfaction from the takoyaki, I kept scavenging.
Finding a half-eaten hand-pulled pancake in a dumpster, I lit up with joy!

“You, come here,” a voice called.
Five students from Jinan Junior High turned to me.

Pretending ignorance, I clutched the pancake and walked over: “What’s up?”

He rubbed his chin, sizing me up: “You’re that androgynous beggar?”

I scratched my head: “Guess that’s me.”

I hadn’t expected to be known.
Luckily, I carried no money today—surely they wouldn’t beat me in public?

Deep down, I was scared, haunted by these schools’ kids.

They were unpredictable.
If I had money, they’d beat me for not having enough; if I had none, they’d call me useless and beat me anyway.

I’d learned after three beatings to say my money was already taken.

He nodded at my sack: “How much are those cans worth?”

“About 50 cents now. If you don’t hit me, I’ll share this.”
I offered the half-eaten pancake, playing naive.

He snorted: “Pathetic pauper. Scram.”

Curious who taught them this extortion racket, I asked: “I get jumped two or three times a day by you Chengnan and Jinan kids. Why do you do it?”

He glanced at me: “None of your business.”

He wouldn’t say?

I’d been extorted blindly for two years!
Angry but scared, he seemed less aggressive—he didn’t grab my sack’s measly 2 yuan (I’d lied about 50 cents to protect myself).

I hated lying; it felt like betraying Grandma’s teachings.
But lying meant avoiding starvation or a beating.

Desperate for answers, I hunched my shoulders, avoiding his gaze, braced for a punch, and offered the pancake again: “I really want to know, but I’ve got no money. Want this?”

He scoffed: “New school boss demands 20 yuan weekly protection fees—crazier than the last one. Don’t pay, get beat. You bugs don’t fight back, so we hit up elementary kids.”

Such a ridiculous reason—didn’t teachers care?

I pulled back the pancake, bowing slightly: “Thanks for telling me.”

“Huh?” He blinked.
I bit the pancake and left.
Behind me, he asked the others: “Anyone seen him use the boys’ bathroom?”

“You into that?”

He kicked: “Shut up, I’m questioning his gender.”

Four days later, with winter looming and gas prices rising, I spent 75 yuan on a canister, leaving 35 yuan.
Money never stayed in my hands.

My life was dull, despairing.
With money, my mood lifted; without, I sank into gloom, looking miserable.

Rubbing my nose, I saw no point overthinking and went scavenging.

The morning’s haul was mediocre—no surprises, just a flat day.
I sold scraps for 3 yuan, with some cardboard at home worth maybe 2 yuan.

So little, the scrapyard might scoff.

No choice—I dreaded spending more than I earned.
Options: eat big restaurants’ leftovers or beg for day-old buns.

I chose begging for buns.
The owner found me annoying, but with persistence, he’d usually give in.

Buns, unlike solid steamed bread, were mostly hollow, less filling.

Then I thought—tomorrow, I’d beg for drinking water, soak bread, and stretch it for two meals, max fullness.

The food industry had a waste recycling pipeline—day-old bread went to fish farmers, not beggars.
Our lives were worthless.

If I had an ID, I’d work, earning 2,500 yuan monthly washing dishes—a fortune!
First month’s pay would fix up our home, maybe get electricity.
The rest for a phone, a QQ account, and online romance with a rich girl.
Second month’s pay to chase a pretty one…

Grinning foolishly, I planned it all, missing just an ID…

“Haha…” I laughed bitterly, back to reality.

Shamelessly, I scored some buns.
On my way home, I saw a stray black cat sniffing near a pipe under the building.
The alley’s cat urine stench annoyed me, so I put the sack over my head to scare it like a ghost!

Two steps in, I froze, waking up.

Wasn’t this what Chengnan and Jinan delinquents did—bullying the weak, picking on the small?
I’d feel satisfied, venting my anger…

But the cat?
Wasn’t it looking for food?
If I scared it off, it’d go hungry.

Wasn’t it as pitiful as me, alone, scavenging daily to survive?

Eyes red, I removed the sack, bowed slightly toward it, and said, “Sorry.”
Reluctantly, I tore a piece of bun and tossed it: “Eat, Little Black.”

The bread bounced twice.
It bolted, stopping far off, green eyes glaring, unnerving me.

“I eat bread, not you,” I explained, tossing the bread closer.
Victims get tense, so I’d better leave.

But I wanted to see it eat.
I hid behind a corner, clutching the wall, peeking with one eye.

It crept forward, ears like airplane wings, neck twitching, scanning for danger before approaching.

Closer, I held my breath, not daring to exhale.
It sniffed, grabbed the bread, tail high, butt toward me, strutting off with elegant cat steps.

When it vanished around the corner, I raised my fist, jumping: “Yes!”

My mood soared.
I headed home, skipping, long hair dancing, face beaming, humming my own “School Song.”

“Night won’t come, sleep late in day, neighbors say, hello there, why carry a schoolbag? Off to the dump, no one knows, dig left, scrape right, find a big gold chain.”

Happier by the step, I danced into the alley, cat urine and all.

Red brick dust covered the ground.
My guarded home… gone…

My heart froze, vision darkened, and I collapsed forward, landing heavily—right where Grandma fell.