"Stop! What do you think you're doing?" I shoved between the bigger boys and the smallest one. Snow stuck to my sleeves. Breath smoked in the air and little fists patted at a wet cheek. "Get out of the way, Bolton," the tallest said, grin full of cold. "This one's ours for the day." "He's not yours," I said. "Leave him alone." "Or what? You'll cry for your papa?" One of them stepped forward. The laugh that followed was sharp enough to cut wind. "Leave him alone!" I repeated. I grabbed the boy's shoulder and pulled him closer to the bench. The bullies hesitated because I did not look like someone who begged for mercy. They were used to frightened faces, not to someone stepping in. "You saw him first," the tallest said. "Street kids don't count." "Everyone counts," I said. "You meant to laugh at him. You won't." A snowball hit my cheek. Cold stung. I wiped my face with my sleeve and found my eyes on his again. He stared at his feet, lips trembling, claws of shame at his palms. One of the boys reached for the small bundle the child clutched. The boy hissed and tried to pull away. The bully grinned. "We take that too." I moved faster than I thought possible. I slapped the bully's hand so hard his fingers left the bundle and he yelped. People turned. A woman sweeping outside the tea-shop put