She strung the beads on one by one, her crooked teeth sore from breaking the string with them. Her fingers were aching from hours of braiding the cheap string on which the wooden beads were hanging. It was a simple bracelet, handcrafted from recycled thread and bits of wood. For a good cause. No money to pay for paint or varnish, she let them hang limp, and then she sat in the street and begged for money.

Pedestrians walked past her with long strides, arms laden with groceries, cell phones raised to their ears as they giggled to someone on the other end. No one even stopped to look at her, save the children, who were quick to point and yell “Look!” to their parents, who pulled them away and whispered ferocious words about strangers on street corners begging for money or food. She was poor and lonely, so why wouldn't she be dangerous?

One little boy stuck his tongue out at her. She had thought she wanted children, once when she was very young and hopeful. (Pure and innocent in body and mind, a child of sorts herself.) Now she knew better about people and about the world.

Finally, a man stopped and peered down his nose at her, glasses perched on his nose and hair still gleaming from a fresh cut. A button boasting a few dollars given to some charity was pinned firmly to his sweater.

“A trade?” she asked, hopefully. Bread would do. An apple. Even a few dimes or quarters were better than ­nothing.

His eyes stopped their exploration of her lack of curves and worn coat. He licked his lips and walked away, sneering.

“Who would want that piece of junk?”

It wasn't the jewelry he talking about.