* * * Young girl calling. Corner of building and she lie there.  Sometime she moan and cry. Sometime she quiet. You know she gonna die, but you watch her. Sometime she moving her finger. Part of me want her to die so I don’t see her move her finger.  If for while you don’t hear anything I feel relieve she is gone. We hang out on the street together -- twelve, thirteen people -- all different age. We close together.  When we show up at that place other people is already there. We stumble into them. Hide. We two came in together. The woman have a package of instant soup. You mix it with water and some rye bread they break out to put in the juice so it absorb. The woman ask me to feed her. It for her, not for me. I ask about her fever. I look around. Nobody watch. I eat it.      Let the spoon touch her lip; she didn’t bother to stuck her tongue out. I try. Nothing happened.  I looked around. Nobody watching. Put it in my mouth. Swallow it too fast. Ugly. I’ve been thinking about her all the time. Where her parent is, if they know what happen to her. I have no way of finding out. Or if her parent have her picture in their family alter. Picture is luxury.  People don’t own camera. I’m not sure how old.  She can be one year older than me. One year younger.  But she at the market every day. Some of us street kid have other sibling.  Some don’t. We show up and join the crowd. We do what we do that day to earn money, whether it steal from somebody or sell some good and make profit.  It doesn’t matter. Make some money and bring home for your parent. I been thinking about it all the time. Doesn’t go away. She injured through the stomach. Her name is Hoa.