And the crowd reformed.

Salim reached into the pocket of an American, hoping for dollars, tourists always carried more.

The man turned as Salim withdrew the wallet, he started shouting at the boy and grabbed him by the wrist. Several other men suddenly surrounded Salim, all American - he'd chosen the wrong person to pickpocket.

House stepped forward. Salim looked at him as though he was crazy, but was clearly relieved he'd done so.

House started reasoning with the men in English, Salim couldn't understand the words, but the face of the man still holding Salim slowly turned from anger into anxiety. He stared at House hard, but just shook his head, and after a few moments the man simply snatched his wallet from Salim's held wrist and released the boy. Salim held it to his chest and rubbed the red skin.

"You're lucky you're not in jail, boy!" the man shouted and motioned for the rest to continue behind him.

"What did you say?"

House understood the words, and he thought for a moment about the right ones.

"I met that man once. He cheated on his wife. I blackmailed him." the sentence wasn't structured right, some of the tenses were wrong as he said them, but Salim understood and laughed lightly. Still nursing his wrist the two walked back out of the crowd.

Salim didn't say thank you.

The man worked in the military with his father. Two worlds collided. But House had changed at the centre, he wasn't recognised. He existed alone.

One week after that House was kidnapped.

He was running through the slums, being chased from the market place along with a half-dozen other children. They'd split up, there were only two cops, one still tailed House. But he'd always been a fast runner, and he knew the movement of the slums now. He was nimble, able to jump onto the roofs and leap from house to house while the cop jogged lethargically along the ground, hindered by the passing people.

House jumped off the last roof as the slum pivoted, landing feet then hands on the dusty floor. The road before him was busy. He glanced back, seeing a flash of the cop's uniform he continued forward running straight into the window of a car.

He tried to apologise and move round but the man staring back looked at him closer, before House could flee the man opened the door and pulled him inside. The cop ran up to the car, angry and sweating, but when he saw the occupant he took off his hat and apologised. He walked back off the road, clearly at a loss of where to go next.

Salim watched from the corner of the street.

House shouted and kicked, but there were more men in the car and they held him down.

"There's a reward on your breathing head, boy. Shut up. The boss will like this. He wants favour with the Americans." The car jolted and they continued driving.

It took thirteen minutes for Salim to express his thanks to House; ten of these House spent in the back of a car, held in place by two pairs of strong hands. Eventually he stopped struggling.

The car had been stuck in a traffic jam, crawling through the city at walking pace.

There was a bang, the car juddered as the wheels tried to turn. A tire had burst. There was much cursing, and the driver got out to look at the damage, as he opened the door the locks in the back sprang open too. Unnoticed, House eyed them thoughtfully. The two men next to him were staring out the window trying to see what had caused the tire to burst.

Two small faces appeared at the window and smiled at House. Jamal raised a finger to his lips to hush House in case he made a noise. Salim very gently open the door, House climbed out as quietly as his could, they didn't risk the clunk of shutting it again. And the three of them ran.

The driver shouted in anger, holding up an old nail which had been placed in the road.

But the boys were gone and laughing before they could chase them.

Salim's 'thank you' was worth much more than two words; just two syllables in a crowd of millions meant nothing.

- Three Weeks Later -

House had blended in perfectly. His skin had tanned deeply, and although it was still a few shades lighter than most it no longer stood out. And now he had a decent hold on the language he could hide more effectively. People had come looking for him, of course they had, but he'd gone mostly unnoticed. It was hard sometimes, he got hungry and cold for long periods of time and he was more thirsty now than he'd ever been in his life. It was scorching hot in the midday heat, and thus a good time for pick-pocketing. He'd tried other things; begged, sold things he'd found or stolen, worked with others sometimes. He'd tried juggling for tips once, but it drew too much attention. It all did, but this - this was what he was best at, and it kept him hidden.

House stood on the edge of the crowd, his practiced eyes flicking between the people looking for opportunities.

He had a gash across his eyebrow that had scabbed over, his eye was bruised and the entire length of his right arm was grazed painfully. Under his mud-stained shorts his shins were bruised and scratched - there'd been a few close calls. Chases through the labyrinth of Mumbai's slums. But here he stood.

He had lost Jamal and Salim a few days ago. House didn't know what happened to them, whether they were caught, whether they moved on to other places, to different things. He also dreaded something worse might have happened to them, but he couldn't dwell on that, he wouldn't because he silently grieved. The city had developed so fast with India's rapid growth, and the two young boys who had befriended him would never be found in the crowd of millions. Their faces blurred in House's memory as people moved by his eyes so quickly, and he had only two syllables left to know each of them by. In turn he had given them just one.

"House," he opened his eyes back onto the blank walls of the asylum. He groaned and tried to reach down to his leg, but his arm felt heavy.

"House," laughed Amber's voice again, toying with his name. He turned his sweating head to the side, his eyes searching in the dark with the same movements as the young thief.

It was just dark. He was alone.

And the dark grew warm.

He merged himself with the crowd, nimbly taking a loose bracelet off a blonde woman's wrist and disappearing back into the milling people. He paused and turned; the woman wasn't blonde, it wasn't Amber, that was wrong - false. But the crowd had already shifted and House moved deeper into the market. He reached his hand into the pocket of a man, but as he did the man turned in reply to a shout. His eyes widened at the sight of the boy with his hand in his pocket. Then he called a word House had come to know well.

"THIEF!"

House bolted, but was caught in the grip of another man, soon several surrounded him and lifted his legs off the floor. They carried him away while he kicked and shouted, one phoned the police. They carried him out of the crowd, held above them in the open air, like an insect pulled from under a rock he squirmed. They held him down while they waited, and soon a van stormed down the road and House was thrown into the back with a number of other petty criminals.

House waited in the police station. He was in a prison cell with several others, his hands still handcuffed, his pockets emptied. He was scared. He didn't know the sentence for theft here. The police officers had been glaring at him. One called him to the front of the cell with a beckoning finger; House pushed past the other prisoners and reluctantly stood before the officer.

The cop looked at him closely. He turned House's face to the side.

"It's him," he shouted back to the other officers. One jumped up and made a phone call. The officer nearest to him took a photo of House and busied himself faxing it through to the military base.

House looked at the wall, his own face stared back at him on a grainy picture. Written underneath were words House couldn't read, but translated into bold English was "Missing - Reward Offered".

House felt a wave of relief that he wouldn't have to stay in prison, and he could leave the grief and the hunger behind. His father had connections, it would be covered up and there was little evidence. But he was unsettled, he would have to go back - and after a month his father would be worse than ever. He'd enjoyed the freedom, but that light was out in both worlds now that he stood handcuffed.

And his world changed again.

His mother didn't recognise him. House stared stonily in front of him, sitting in a chair beside a line of police offices. The walls were sterile white. Then she hugged him, and after a stunned moment House hugged her back. His father stood there in a perfectly ironed military jacket, cap gripped in his hand. Straight back, chin held high.

They'd been back at the military camp for a few days. House still ate like others might steal his food.

He maintained the same tactic for making friends. Share food and bail them out of trouble. True things that meant something to House. Life without hunger, pain and a life of freedom.

He'd done it for Wilson, who still tried to thank him with words.

But everybody lies, what are words to a madman?

His father hadn't spoken to him since he'd been back. It burnt at House, but it suited him.

And then, when his mother was away for the day, it started again; his healing bruises resurfaced , and his father raged and hit.

"You're not my father," shouted House, holding a bruised arm to his chest. He heard his mother's key in the door.

"I'm not your son," House laughed as the words finally tumbled out of his mouth. He'd known for some time, a final prompt to run away. Because those words were real. Truth.

"Go to your room," said the man, spitting the syllables, attempting to control his anger. The boy in front of him looked much older now, and he had a sinister sparkle in the blue of his eye.

House turned and walked with deliberate calm to his room.

"Hi mom," he said without turning to look at her.

"Hello, Greg." she answered warmly, "I'm home, John! John? Are you alright?"

House smirked as he walked along the dark, unfamiliar hallway of his home. His father was silent.

Out the corner of his eye a small Indian boy held a finger to his mouth as though to hush.

House turned. There was nobody.

The End

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