In Which Awareness Only Does So Much Good Without An Outlet To Focus It On
On an outing in the City with his family, Mike feels a pick, grab the urchin's hand -- he's tiny, maybe Frankie's age, and so skinny his eyes seem almost too big for his face. Mike looks at the coins in the kids hand, folds his fingers closed over them, and nods. "Keep it. But don't try it again unless you're sure you can pull off the snatch."
The kid nods, wide-eyed. Mike lets him go and the kid scampers. Its over in seconds and no-one else even notices.
The day goes on.
His mother shoots him a disapproving look as he drops a coin into the cap of the child-beggar on the corner, but all he can think is that that was how Kevin got started -- ten or eleven years old, and before long he learned that wiping down tables was more profitable than begging, and whoring more profitable still -- Mike wonders, painfully, how long it'll take this kid to learn the same, or if he'd last that long. The winter is coming in early this year, and already there's snow of the air
Though he'd never willingly return to ignorance, Mike's not sure what to do with his newfound awareness. He looks at the tiny face and his heart breaks, but he walks away knowing so many of the possible futures for this child, and his pocket is only a few coins lighter.