The warmth from last night's food distribution hasn't completely dissipated yet, and the eyes hiding in the shadows remain vigilant but are less likely to flee at the sight of people.
Little Mud shrinks into the deepest shadow, back pressed against the cold stone, not daring to move an inch.
She's eleven, or maybe twelve, thirteen... she can't remember.
Age is a meaningless number in Black Swamp Town.
People are only divided into two kinds, those who can move and those waiting to die.
Little Mud doesn't remember her parents' faces, only the salty taste when the dust choked her on the day the mine shaft collapsed.
Later, she was told her mother was buried underneath, and her father lasted six months before dying at home.
The body was dragged away the next day, filling a pit.
Children like her are not uncommon in Black Swamp Town.
When they're truly starving, they crawl to the swamp's edge to dig for insects, nails perpetually blackened.
