“Where are we going?” he asks.
“To my home.”
The word home feels too proud for what waits on the edge of the dump, but it is the one your grandmother uses, so you use it too. People who have almost nothing must be careful with words. Sometimes dignity is the only possession that stays yours unless you give it away.
The path down from the trash mounds is narrow and treacherous. You know where the glass is thickest, where the mud hides nails, where older boys sometimes wait to snatch sacks from children smaller than themselves. Today your eyes are not searching for metal or plastic. They are scanning for witnesses.
Three men with hooked poles are working near the refrigerator carcasses. One of them notices you and squints.
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