I walk along the streets of London, shivering in my tattered clothes. At this point, I am regretting cutting my hair short like a boy's. I had cut it only half a year ago, but it it still to my chin. My hair used to be long, wild, and warm, but I didn't like taking care of it. I really didn't care about it, anyway. All I cared about was getting food and shelter.

A freezing wind goes straight through my thin garb and I wrap my bony arms around my chest. What wouldn't I give for a layer of fat!

As I walk alone, I can't help thinking how I had gotten here. No trace of parents, no memory of any at all. I had spent 9 years or so of my life in an orphanage, but they got so desperate to sell me off that I went 5 pence to an abusive family. I'd ended up running away a little less than a year after my arrival there and attempted to join various gangs of thieves. The effort was useless, for no one wanted a scrawny little girl in their gang of boys and men.

That's what made me decide to cut my hair. I'd never looked extremely feminine, and shorter hair could help with that image. I decided that I would try to become a pickpocket and join the gang of Fagin, the feared old Jew who kept a legion of sneaky boys to steal him riches. They were perhaps the most successful and large gang in London, and if I couldn't make it in there, I had no chance anywhere else, even if I was disguised as a boy. So, I ended up changing my name from Ebony (no idea what my real last name was, and I never dared to take on that of my abusive parents) to Edward.

Well, let's just say that bloody plan backfired. All went well at first, and Fagin's gang told me to consider myself one of them. I soon learned the art of pickpocketing, which turned out to be a thoroughly useful skill. Everyone believed I was a boy, and no one had even thought of me being a cross dresser. Everyone except for the Dodger.

One of the most experienced boys in the gang, more namely the leader, Jack Dawkins (preferably the Artful Dodger) saw right through my mask. I believe he was 14 or 15 years old, my age or a year older. He had this crazy smile and could get away with anything, and everyone, including myself, looked up to him. It was apparent to me that he knew my secret, for the glances he shot me sometimes were untrustworthy yet knowing.

I had been a member of the gang for about 5 months when he finally confronted me. It was just as we were returning from our daily rounds in the marketplace, and Dodger told the rest of the gang to go on ahead and that we would catch up later. This thoroughly confused me. I hadn't even thought of my true identity for a while and was so used to being called Edward.

Sure enough, Dodge finally confessed that he had known that I was a girl. I asked how, fully admitting the façade, and he replied that it was obvious in my mannerisms; the way I put on my shoes, the way I threw a ball while playing catch, how I breathed when I was sleeping. That last one scared me a bit.

I apologized to him, begging to keep my secret kept. I could tell he wanted me to stay but he told me I could not. Being an orphan, I never knew much about love, but I could tell that Dodge cared for me, just as he could tell that I wasn't really Edward, but Ebony. He wanted to have this all sorted out with Fagin, but I wouldn't return to the house now that the secret was out. Without warning, I bid the Dodger a brisk goodbye and ran off towards nowhere, not bothering to even say goodbye to the rest of my dysfunctional yet amazing family.

Now here I am, roaming the empty streets alone. If only Dodge were here to help me…

No! I need to stop thinking about him. I'm on my own now; I made the choice to leave. My heart aches whenever I think of the gang and how much they loved me, and something inside tells me that they would have let me stay, even if I am a girl. Bet and Nancy always visited us, and it was completely normal. Did I make the wrong decision?

I ponder the question for a long time. Living alone on the streets gives you lots of time to think. Before I know it, I am crossing the London bridge. Rain begins to splash my face with tiny drops then gradually flows in heavy sheets. This is closest to a wash I've gotten in a long time. I'm halfway across the bridge when I notice a mauve figure slumped on the cobblestone. Running now, I reach the shape and bend over it, my vision obscured by the blinding rain.

It's a woman. I check her breathing; nothing. Pulse; not there. I take in a sharp breath. She's dead! I roll the body over so that I can see her face and I gasp. Nancy!

There are bruises around her neck, which means that she was indeed murdered. Who in hell could have done it? Could it have been… Bill? My breathing quickens; I don't want to be seen like this, for someone could suspect me the murderer. I don't want t believe Bill did this either, but this is exactly something he would do.

A gale-force wind nearly blows me over and sends a deep chill into my bones. My teeth chatter at the cold and the eeriness of the situation I am in. Even though she's dead, Nancy's lucky. She has her long, silky red dress to keep her warm…

I look around frantically to make sure no one is near or watching me before I carry out my sudden impulse. I'm too freezing to let this opportunity slip by; if I don't take it, I'll be dead from hypothermia by morning.

I sprint away, off the other end of the bridge, clutching my new skirts in my hands so I don't trip over them. Guilt is gnawing at me, but I keep telling myself that it's okay. I need this clothing and my fallen friend doesn't.