Rain hammered on the roof of the wooden shanty. The thin planks did little to muffle the sound, and the drumming easily penetrated the interior.
A man cursed the miserable weather in frustration, but his hands never stopped moving. With a flick and a pass, he swapped the card in front of him. He was fast, truly fast, but his technique was flawed—the corner of a card peeked from his hand as he made the switch.
If he hadn't already had two fingers chopped off, his work wouldn't be this sloppy.
A small boy stood under the eaves outside the door, staring longingly inside. His mouth was slightly agape and his throat bobbed, as if he wanted to say something, but in the end, he remained silent.
The man noticed him and, slipping off a worn-out shoe that exposed his toes, threw it at the boy. "What are you looking at? Scram! You want another beating tonight if you don't bring back any food?"
The boy ran back into the muddy street, braving the rain.
