Free The Good Thief by Hannah Tinti Page A

street. The pastor stood at the gate in his robes, a short, wiry man with a large mole on his chin, trying to look dignified as the people walked by, but instead seeming rather afraid of them.
     
    Ren felt a familiar shove from behind. He tumbled off the sidewalk and into a mountain of horse manure, right in front of the church. The families stepped back. The pastor lifted his robe. And they all looked at the boy in the gutter, streaked brown from head to toe.
     
    “Hey there!” A voice came from the crowd. People were moving aside; someone was pushing through. Ren saw that it was Benjamin. He had his spectacles on and his hair neatly pulled back. “Are you all right?” He lifted Ren from the gutter, shook the dirty lumps from his shoulders, and looked through the pieces of glass on his nose directly into Ren’s eyes, as if he were searching for a piece of manure there, too.
     
    “I’m fine,” the boy said quietly. He tried not to look at the pastor or the women gathered round.
     
    “What’s this?” Benjamin said loudly. He took hold of Ren’s left arm and pushed back the sleeve. The boy’s wrist was revealed before all of them, a cold and lonely nub. Ren tried to pull away, believing this was payback for what he’d done in Jefferson’s store. But Benjamin held on tight and turned to the families on the sidewalk, his face a combination of horror and pity. “Here, take something that will help your poor, miserable life. Here, here,” said Benjamin, and he dug into his pocket and held out Jefferson’s five cents. “It’s not much, but I hope that it will bring you comfort.” He blinked rapidly, as if he were trying to hold back tears. Then he took his pocket handkerchief and began fiercely rubbing manure from the boy’s cheeks.
     
    The parishioners gaped at Ren’s arm. Some whispered among themselves and moved off. A few of the children looked frightened. Ren tried to yank free, but Benjamin refused to let go until an old, bent lady came forward.
     
    “Poor thing,” she said. “Here, boy, here you are.” And she reached into the inner folds of her bosom and produced a large coin. She touched it to his nose and it was warm.
     
    “Thank you,” said Ren. His cheeks burned. The woman slipped the coin into the pocket of his coat. Benjamin paused for a moment, then continued to vigorously rub away the manure.
     
    “ Iwant to give money to the cripple.” A small girl stamped her foot on the sidewalk. Her mother tried to pull her away, but the child fussed, shaking her dark, shiny ringlets until the woman gave in and handed her a penny from her purse. The girl approached, holding her coin out far away from her, as if she were feeding a wild animal. Ren stared. He had never seen hair this perfect. It was the color of a crow’s wings—so black and so rich.
     
    “Go on,” she said, “take it.” She held the coin up to his face.
     
    Ren’s left arm was useless. His right was tucked inside of his jacket, holding on to the book he had stolen. He did not want to let it go, and so instead of reaching for the money the boy opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue, and the girl, understanding, placed the coin upon it like a communion wafer. Ren stood there for a moment, feeling the weight of the metal, the tang of the copper. The crowd lightly applauded. More people came forward, coins in their fists, and began stuffing them into Ren’s pockets.
     
    “Hank hoo,” said Ren. “Hank hoo, hank hoo.” The coin dropped from his lips, and Benjamin caught it.

Chapter IX
    T he men went out that night. They left Ren behind in the crumbling basement, with a few candles and a promise that he would not open the door, not to anyone, no matter what was said or who came knocking. Tom took the lantern and Benjamin grabbed the wooden shovel he’d bought earlier that afternoon. It had cost five cents, the same amount they’d received for The Lives of the Saints .
     
    When they were gone and the locks were