That tomorrow never came. Elena fell ill. First she felt tired, then feverish, and then dizzy and short of breath. One day she collapsed in the street; they took her to the center of Minoskim.
Health and then to the hospital. Rabby watched as his mother disappeared through a white door and didn’t return that day. A social worker arrived, using difficult words and explanations too fast for a child to understand.
They talked about hospitalization, tests, and treatment. They also said they couldn’t leave him there alone. They offered him shelter. Rabby tried it for a few days. He didn’t adjust. He missed his mother’s voice, even when she was angry, even when she was tired.
And one day he simply ran away. The street became my home. The traffic light became my workplace. I cleaned windows, helped carry bags, did favors for money, and when my stomach was full, I collected cans and rummaged through the trash for food scraps.
It was on one of those days, with the sun already setting and the strong smell of garbage emanating from the sidewalks, when it all really began. Raby was behind a huge building, one of those with a mirrored facade that he only saw from afar.
There stood the large plastic garbage containers, overflowing with torn black bags, wet paper, and all sorts of debris. He handled the bags carefully because he knew they sometimes contained broken glass.
Rats and syringes. He separated the aluminum cans into a separate bag. Each kilo earned him a few coins, enough to buy bread and coffee with milk at a bar where they didn’t bother asking his age.
Amid the nauseating stench, one detail caught my eye: a different envelope. It was brown, thick, and not torn, just dirty at the corner. It didn’t look like food scraps; it looked like something someone had hastily thrown away.
Rab picked it up and tapped it against his leg to remove the dust and grease. It was then that he saw, in a very small corner of the envelope, a symbol he had seen on signs all over the city: a blue and gold logo with the name of the company that managed half the buildings.
She couldn’t read it all, but she recognized the design. She’d overheard people at the bus stop saying, “That company belongs to the millionaire on TV, the one who buys everything, who controls everything.” The envelope was sealed, but the flap seemed to be held only by a clip, not glued.
Rabby thought about opening it. The curiosity of a 13-year-old boy was certainly present, but the memory of his mother came rushing back like a scolding. What isn’t ours, we don’t take, even if it’s abandoned.
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