Had a bit of a run-in today. A couple of knob-heads were roughing up this boy who has been haunting my neighborhood streets for awhile. I had seen him begging passerby for change and pity numerous times, and although I've always resented having to deal with the infirm I decided to intervene.

The two knobs had him up against a wall and were robbing him of his belongings. I waved my umbrella at them angrily, and they scuttled away hastily as I knew they would. The boy was very thankful and I felt a warm tingle for one guilty second. I bought him a cup of tea and some biscuits.

When we were sitting in the cafe together--undoubtedly an awkward sight, what, a tired journalist and a filthy urchin--he asked me what my name was. We had a bit of an odd conversation as he didn't seem to be able to express himself very eloquently.

"My name is Thela," I told him. "I'm a journalist."
"You do them newspapers?"
"I used to. Now I just fume about and write whatever I feel like."
"Lots of money in that?"

The boy came across as some sort of wounded lamb, and I, the lion coming to his rescue, or something like that--I don't remember exactly how the fable goes.

"No," I replied, laughing a bit. "Not much money at all."
"So 'ow do you make a living then?"
"Oh, I publish a story every now and then."
"Houses are mighty pricey about here, aren't they?"

"...I have roommates."

I felt a bit of a snarl cross my lips as I remembered my drunken flatmates and their wanton disregard for personal space--Edgar had been stumbling back into the apartment every night drunk as a fish and about as foul-smelling as one, too. The boy seemed to notice it and changed the subject.

"Well, I'm Ewan," he replied. "I'm not called that too often, though."
"What do they call you? Where are your parents?"
"They call me all sorts of things," he said, and giggled for a bit. It was a tired little laugh; the boy couldn't be over ten years old, and I wagered he had already seen enough nastiness for thirty.

"...And my parents are dead," he said, still smiling.
"Who takes care of you then?"
"Ewan," said Ewan. "Ewan takes care of Ewan. I'm fine, mostly."

I left Ewan with the rest of my pocket change and a warm hand on his shoulder. I whisked back off into the wet streets and wondered what sorts of things that little boy knew. I imagined he had seen very much, and not all of it pleasant. Every journalist needs a source, you know. I've decided that the next time I see him I'm going to ask him if he knows anything dangerous.

-Thela