Foxy cried, and cried, and cried . . .

She had never felt a pain this bad. Her stomach convulsed due to the pain. And whatever she had eaten, she heaved it back to the earth.

Vomit mixed with tears pooled under her cheek. But she could not move. The pain was too much.

"Mummy."

Foxy cried. She didn't remember her Mummy. She was convinced she did not have one.She had been on her own ever since she could remember. But sometimes, deep in the night, in the silence, she imagined what it would be like to have a Mummy. And during pain, or starvation, she wanted one to comfort her.

Foxy sobbed. The pain was unbearable. But she could not stay on the ground for far too long.

It's only a thumb, she told her brain.

However her brain simply responded with one thing: stop, stop, stop.

I will go to Emma's. Maybe she will help me. Foxy tried to reason with her mind. Yet, all it did was yell at her to make the pain stop.

Foxy gritted her teeth, frustrated, hungry. The anger helped her move. And soon, Foxy found herself sitting up. She cradled her right hand and looked at where her thumb was. They had done a poor job at cutting. It was careless work. And she thought she was messy!

Gritting her teeth again, conjuring up images in her head of the men, Foxy found enough strength to stand on her feet. As she did, her gaze fell on the ground.

Idiots.

They were clearly not the brightest of the pack. Or maybe they were first timers. Foxy bent, grabbed her thumb, and tucked it in her underwear's rubber strap. At least she would be able to access.

She moved. And then her mind gave up. Foxy found herself falling to the ground.

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Hours must have passed when Foxy found her consciousness. She had bit her tongue when she fell. Now, she could taste blood.

She tried moving. Her chest was sore because of the fall. After several attempts, she found herself sitting up. Only to bring face to face with a rather strange looking man.

"The Moon is not very exquisite as people tell it to be, is it?"

The first thing that Foxy noticed was that he was clean. He smelled so clean too. It was strange. She had never seen such a clean man ever. He was so clean.

"And the slums . . . not as bad?" He said.

He was wearing clean clothes too. He wore a green . . . long jacket? And a shirt that was so white. Foxy wondered how he had managed to stay alive. He should have been dead and mugged the moment he entered the slums.

Foxy must have looked horrible! He was so clean that he made everything around him look more dirty.

And he smelled so, so, good.

The man's gaze fell on her right hand.

"What happened to you?"

"They took my thumb." She said weakly. "And my money."

He nodded then looked away. Then, he looked back at her. "I should offer to help you, right?"

Foxy blinked at him. In her mind, she was convinced that he was a product of her imagination. No one so clean would want to breathe the same air as the slum dwellers.

"Yep." He nodded to himself. "It is the right thing to do. Come." He moved close to her and put a gentle hand under her arm to lift her up. She wobbled on her feet. The lack of food, the blood loss, the mere of shock of it all, could be one of the reason why.

She hated the fact that he had touched her. His skin was so pale against her's. Was it because he was clean?

"Where are we going?"

"To that woman. What do you call her? Emma?"

She nodded.

"Yep. Emma." He nodded to himself again. It seemed as if he liked talking to himself.

They walked slowly. Mostly because Foxy could barely do it. She was feeling too tired. In fact, she wanted to tell him to let her go so that she could find her sleeping spot and lie in. But he was so clean, and she was curious, that she let him take her to the Kitchen.

The Kitchen was packed as usual. And it reeked. Suddenly, Foxy was conscious of the fact that she must smell too.

The crowd parted when the man entered with her. And the Kitchen grew silent. Since, the slum was small, they still had to brush past people. The people tried to give them space.

"Foxy!" Emma appeared. "What happened?" Then she looked at the man. She straightened up, eyes wide, moving from the man to Foxy. "Sir?"

"Help her." The clean man said.

She nodded a bit too eagerly as she grabbed Foxy, took her to the corner of the room, and start cleaning the wound.

"Where did you meet the man?"

"He was staring at me when I woke up." Foxy answered.

Emma glanced at the man who was already staring at them. He didn't seem bothered about the looks he was getting. With so many dwellers around, he should have already been dead. Or his thumb should have been cut off.

It was at that time that Foxy noticed that the man looked frightening. His eyes; they were dark, hazy and void of any emotion. His was a lean man, yet his stance was of confidence. And he had a small smile on his face. It could be barely seen.

Foxy looked away. She felt like a fool trusting this man blindly. Why? Because he was clean? Fool.

Emma carefully tied a cloth around her wound then smiled at her. "I'm sorry this happened to you."

Foxy shrugged. It didn't matter. She wanted to sleep. She glanced at the man. He was looking elsewhere or rather everywhere. He seemed to be observing the slum with such curiosity.

"Do you know this man?" Foxy asked.

"He comes occasionally."

"Why?"

"No one knows."

The man was back to looking at them when she glanced at him for the third time.

"Emma, why don't you get this kid some food . . ." before Emma could object, however, he added. "On me."

"Sir." She gave a nod that looked so odd on her. Emma was trying to be so polite.

The soup was handed to her on a fading Stryofoam bowl. All the other people stared at Foxy, hungrily, as she drank her warm, stale, soup.

Once, she was done, she looked at the man. He was still there. Still staring.

"Let's go?" The man asked.

Foxy glanced at Emma hesitantly.

Emma shrugged.

Foxy nodded as she placed her bowl and walked away with the man as the people continued to stare at her.

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