I own nothing.
Jack was running, going through a mental checklist in his mind. He knew of three French restaurants, and at least seven different alleys near each. He tried to think and found he couldn't. His feet guided him to the first restaurant, the one closest to here he was. He looked in one of the alleys. Nothing that he could see. He ran to the next one. Nothing there, either.
When he had tried all of the alleys on that street, he ran as fast as he could to the next French restaurant and searched there. But it was getting dark, and harder to see. He would have to thoroughly search each alley to make sure Patch wasn't in them. As he passed each one, he would search it, calling out desperately, "Patch?"
As he checked one just past the restaraunt, he saw something sticking out from behind a dumpster. It looked curiously like a foot... Without a second though, Jack sprinted forward. His breath caught in his throat. Patch.
But it wasn't Patch as Jack knew him. No, this Patch looked small, tiny and vulnerable. His hands and feet were dirtier than usual, and, the worst change, one side of his face was covered in blood.
Earlier...
Patch was trying to find some money. That evil, evil man had taken all of his, and he needed more. This could have been pretty easy, but he refused to steal, or even beg. He was sick and tired of begging people for money, for he rembered how it felt, crouching on the cobblestones and begging for a scrap of food, a penny, and he had no wish to return to that place.
So, he decided to search for some spare change that someone might have dropped. He started in the alleys, where he knew people fought contantly, causing change to fall out of their pockets. He had found a nickel and two pennies all morning, and it was nearing lunch. At this rate, it would be several days before he could afford even a small meal, much less provide for his family as well.
As he was walking out of an alley, where he had found, oh, wonder of wonders, another nickel, he tripped on a stone jutting up from the ground. He flailed his arms desperately, trying to grab onto something to stop his fall, but all that was nearby was a man, walking quickly by. Without thinking, Patch grabbed at his jacket, trying to keep his balance. However, as things would have it, his hand went into the man's wide pocket. The man was walking so fast that he accidentally dragged Patch forward several steps before he noticed it and before Patch could remove his hand.
Then the man turned to look at Patch. He shot him one disgusted glance, shoved him back, and walked on. He didn't care about one little street rat.
But when Patch fell, he landed hard on his back, banging his head against the rock he had tripped over in the first place. He sat up slowly, feeling a warm flow of blood running down the back of his head. Trying to make it stop bleeding, he rubbed his arm across it, but he only succeeded in smearing it across his face as well.
He couldn't stand, and he was in the way on the sidewalk, so he crawled back into the alley, behind the dumpster. "Lofa," he muttered under his breath. "Lofa, lofa, lofa."
He only meant to rest against the wall for a minute or two, until he felt better, but one or two minutes became five... His head was throbbing, maybe just a little longer... He was feeling strangely dizzy, even sitting down. Maybe he should wait a bit more... His eyelids were so heavy, maybe he could just stay there for a little while longer...
And, before he knew it, Patch was asleep, blood running down his back now too. After a few minutes, the flow of blood slowed and was a mere trickle, but he had lost a lot...
