Free Spirit of a Mountain Wolf by Rosanne Hawke

and so were his legs.
    “My name is Raj,” he said. “This is Hira, she is the youngest, and this is Moti.” His voice was strange: muffled and lisping, as if part of his mouth was missing inside. “Moti is named after the Moti Bazaar because Zakim found her alone there when she was little.”
    “But it means pearl,” Moti added with pride.
    Razaq studied the gap in her teeth. How long had Zakim been living like this? Six years?
    “Why do you have green eyes?” Raj asked. “Are you magic? A genie?” He sounded hopeful.
    “I do not think so,” Razaq said. He searched the solemn faces in front of him. “Did Zakim find you all?”
    “Of course,” Moti said. “Didn’t he find you?”
    “He gives us all a name,” Raj said. “And now we have to show you what to do. We work here.”
    Razaq crawled out of the shelter to see what the boy meant. Before him was a mountain of garbage. He had never seen so much rubbish. At home, his mother had made use of most things, and what the goats wouldn’t eat, he had buried.
    Moti followed close behind him. “One day we will be rich.”
    “Like princes,” Raj added.
    Hira took his hand. She looked about four years old. “You do look like the moon,” she said.
    Razaq felt his face grow hot. Chandi was going to be an embarrassing nickname. He blew out a breath. “What do you do all day?” he asked.
    Moti took his other hand. “We find good rubbish and Zakim sells it. Sprite bottles are the best. But sometimes we just have to pick up paper and rags. Zakim says someone uses them again.” She scrunched up her face.
    “Zakim picks up metal scrap,” Raj said.
    “Is it dangerous?” Razaq was thinking of accidents with broken glass or the little ones falling off the dump and wasn’t ready for Raj’s answer.
    “We just have to watch out for the slavers.”
    Razaq looked quickly at him. “The what?”
    “The men who want to take us away from Zakim,” Moti said. “They will tell us they have a nice place for us to sleep, but really they want us to be slaves and beg for them. Here we are free. So we watch out for each other. If you see any men, run away.” Razaq let her pull him forward. “Just find nice things to sell,” she went on. “Then we can have tasty khana tonight. Usually we just have chapatti and chai, and boiled potatoes if Zakim is lucky.”
    “Ji,” said Hira, “but last night we ate shami kebabs. The meat in them was tasty.”
    “They were cold and moldy,” Raj reminded her.
    Hira pouted. “I still liked them.”
    Moti found Razaq a huge plastic bag, and he soon learned what was salable: soft-drink bottles and jars, rags for car shops. If he brought anything back that couldn’t be sold, Moti looked at him mournfully. He couldn’t stand it. He imagined how he’d feel if he had to find things to sell so Seema and Layla could eat that night and worked so hard he didn’t notice Zakim come up behind him.
    “You’ve taken to the scrap yard, I see.”
    Razaq spun around. Zakim had a canvas bag over his shoulder and a jacket in his hand. It was green and looked like it belonged to a cricketer.
    “This is for you,” he said. “You were shivering in your sleep last night. I found it in Landar Bazaar.”
    Razaq didn’t immediately take it so Zakim held it out. “You can pay me later.”
    “Shukriya.”
    Zakim watched him trying it on, then said, “You must have left quickly from where you were not to take a coat.”
    Razaq nodded, not sure how to explain Kazim in the freedom of the morning sun. He took the jacket off and tied it around his waist. Zakim wasn’t smiling today, he noticed. “Is anything the matter?”
    Zakim glanced at the children picking up garbage. Moti’s voice carried up the dump, telling them what to do. “I want to keep them safe,” he said.
    Razaq was silent with respect.
    “But there is someone who doesn’t want that.”
    “Who?”
    “The bear.”
    Razaq stared at him, crinkling his eyes.
    “Nasir Ali,” Zakim