I peer in the window, looking at all the people eating their pizzas. I can’t see anyone on their own. No woman looking out the window, waiting for me. I walked past, down the alleyway. She’s not here. I don’t know why I’m crying. Of course she isn’t here. I’m in the right place. There’s the dustbin. Well, it’s not one single silver dustbin the way I’d imagined. There are lots of wheely-bins, large, stinking and unattractive. I don’t know if there was a real dustbin once or whether the journalists fudged things because Wheely-bin Waif has less impact. I stare at the wheely-bins, breathing shallowly. How could anyone stuff a newborn baby in those dank depths? I’ve imagined it over and over and yet I’ve never thought about the smell. I must have reeked when that boy raked through the rubbish and found me. Yet he cradled me inside his shirt. That’s what the newspaper said.
