A pungent stench flooded my nose, an unimaginable reek—like urine mixed with feces, rotten fish, and rotten eggs. It was so overpowering that it dragged me awake.

But my body was weak and aching. I felt unbearably hot, yet somehow cold too—a deeply contradictory sensation. My eyelids felt impossible to lift, and my stomach was painfully empty.

I was clearly awake, but my body felt as if it hadn’t caught up yet. My mind was in a haze, countless memories tangling together inside it, but whenever I tried to focus on them, I couldn’t remember a thing.

My memories only went as far as Big Fly. It seemed to have tossed me through a door, and then I’d gone through something like being flushed down a toilet or tossed around in a washing machine. After that, I’d fallen into a deep sleep. When I woke up, I was here.

Hadn’t I already died? How could I still feel sleepy, smell things, and get hungry? Could a soul still feel things that way, like it had a body?

Just then, I heard a man’s voice beside me, cursing harshly in a language I’d never heard before. Strangely, I could just barely understand him. Memories of an unfamiliar language were surfacing in my mind.

“She’s no use anymore. Throw her out!” It was the same man’s voice. It sounded terribly familiar, as if I’d heard it hundreds, even thousands of times before. And yet, another part of my memory insisted I’d never heard it at all.

A rough hand grabbed me and yanked me up—not lifted me in its arms, but hauled me up by force—then flung me straight out. I hit the cold, muddy ground hard. Pain shot through my entire body, and a groan escaped me.

That was when I realized I could speak. I also knew I had to open my eyes. Even though my eyelids felt as heavy as lead, I forced them open.

A gloomy gray sky came into view, veiled by smog so thick I couldn’t see the sun. Standing in front of me was a fierce-looking bald man with a cruel beard. He wore nothing but a tattered, open-front shirt, and his body was covered in knife scars.

A few boys and girls stood behind him. They were all gaunt and pale, dressed in thin, ragged clothes. They watched the furious man in fear, not even daring to meet his eyes.

In the background stood a cluster of tall buildings. They clearly weren’t Eastern in style; they looked like Western homes, perhaps from a more recent era. I couldn’t tell what country they belonged to. The whole place just felt old and filthy.

But the place I’d just been thrown out of looked like a shanty made from sheets of scrap metal. I must have been lying in a pile of straw beneath its roof, with all kinds of junk piled behind me. Could this guy be a scrap collector?

Then a flood of unfamiliar memories filled my mind. They were about the man in front of me: Mackduff, a thug who ruled this neighborhood. He’d gathered a gang of hooligans and orphans, trained them to be thieves, and kept them all alive by stealing.

I froze again. I’d never met this man before, so why did I have memories of him? Then another rush of muddled memories hit me. I was one of the orphans he’d taken in too—not as a thief, but as a beggar, using a young girl’s pitiful appearance to win sympathy from passersby.

Wait! Hold on! What were these ridiculous memories? I was a man! What did it mean to use a young girl’s pitiful appearance to make people feel sorry for me? This was all wrong!

Only then did I manage to take in my own condition. I was wearing nothing but a rag. No, it didn’t even count as clothes—I was just wrapped in a filthy black piece of cloth. My exposed thighs and arms were covered in grime, too.

My legs and arms were painfully thin and frail, clearly underdeveloped from malnutrition. Their delicate shape also had to do with my age and sex. These were unmistakably a little girl’s limbs.

Before I got sick, I’d been a strong, healthy man. I used to play ball at school all the time, and my arms and legs were sturdy and muscular. They certainly hadn’t looked like a little girl’s.

I tried to move, and sure enough, this was my body now. It was terribly thin and dirty, but I could still make out the graceful curves of a young girl. In this pitiful state, I couldn’t help but inspire a person’s sympathy.

Long hair, fading from black to gold, hung on either side of my face and fell to my chest. When I’d been thrown out, it had come loose and spread across the ground. I didn’t need to look to know I must have seemed utterly pitiful.

What was going on?! Wasn’t I supposed to be dead? Why was I here, in a place I didn’t recognize at all? Why had I become a girl? Was this some kind of joke?

But I didn’t have time to think about it. The rough man, Mackduff, came over again and kicked me in the ribs. “You lot, throw her farther away! Don’t leave her blocking the door and getting in the way!” he snarled.

It hurt! Of course a frail girl’s body couldn’t withstand a kick from a strong, middle-aged man. But it didn’t feel as unbearable as I expected. The agony that had once felt like my bones were being scraped and drilled into, and the splitting headache I’d suffered after death, had both been far worse than this kick.

Now I could endure a kick like that. I only let out a faint, hoarse groan instead of screaming in pain. I was a little surprised myself.

Mackduff was shouting at the ragged orphans behind him, but not one of them moved. Quite a few looked at me with sympathy.

Ah, right. I knew them. More new memories surfaced: just like me, they were abandoned children whom Mackduff had taken in and trained to be beggars or thieves.

We’d grown up together, sharing the good and the bad, and formed deep bonds like family. Not one of these children was willing to come and throw me out.

“Please, boss, don’t kick Parula out! She’s so sick, and she hasn’t had anything to eat. If you throw her out, she’ll die!” A boy stepped forward and pleaded loudly on my behalf.

He had naturally curly, pale blond hair and bright green eyes. If he weren’t so obviously malnourished, and if his face weren’t smudged with dirt, he’d probably be quite handsome.

He was a little taller than the others around him, and his clothes were a little better, too. Most of us orphans wore nothing but torn rags, but he had a complete pair of overalls and a shirt.

The name he’d said caught my attention. Parula. Was that my name now? A rush of new memories told me it was. That was my name, given to me by the loathsome Mackduff standing right in front of me.

I also remembered the name of the boy who’d pleaded for me. Mackduff had picked it for him at random, too. His name was Jayard, the best big brother among us—and the finest thief under Mackduff.