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I picture a child, barely more than a toddler, fighting bare-knuckled in the street, surrounded by a rabid crowd of onlookers. It doesn’t seem possible. “Where was your mother?” There’s a shrug in his voice. “f*****g some john.” We’re quiet for a moment, listening to the rain. Bella is nestled at our feet, dreaming. Her paws twitch in a dream run. “I never knew my father. Don’t even know his name. I doubt my mother knew who he was, either. It was common for the prostitutes to get pregnant in the slums; johns paid more when the girls didn’t insist on protection. There was the threat of HIV and everything else, of course, but they always paid more if they didn’t have to wear a rubber. I don’t know why.” He pauses again, and his voice turns dark. “Some of them paid more for a pregnant w**
- Writer
