An evening breeze danced over the grim slums — slipping through alleyways, scattering dust everywhere, and toying with the straw on the roofs of dilapidated houses. After scattering a swarm of flies, it swept over a pile of trash by the road, where among the refuse lay a man covered in vomit.

  Why is the world spinning? I don’t get it, the man thought. Why do I feel so bloody awful?

  Trying to get his legs under him, he waved his uncooperative limbs in the air, floundering on the garbage heap like an overturned turtle, scattering rotten cabbage leaves, peelings, and plain dirt in every direction. His pitiful attempts to escape the trash trap drove shards of broken pottery into his body, making them grind against each other. With immense effort, he managed to sit up.

  "Ugh. Tired," he lifted his hands, trying to shake the grime off. "Is the world spinning? No, I'm drunk. Seriously drunk. When did I even—?"

  Catching his breath, he got on all fours and, swaying, crawled away from the trash pile onto the dusty, dirt-packed road. His hands trembled and didn't seem like a reliable support. An idea surfaced to turn his face to the side so he wouldn't faceplant if he fell. Drool dripped down in long, sticky threads, forming tiny puddles.

  Get a grip! You were driving the car… then… What then? An accident, he recalled. Shit! I’m supposed to be at the meeting! The boss is going to skin me alive! Maybe it's not too late? Boss, I’m coming!

  Gathering his strength, he tried to jump to his feet in one swift motion but, like a one-legged grasshopper, toppled over sideways. His cheek smacked into the ground, raising a cloud of dust. Snorting through his nose, he lay there in the pose of a fish washed ashore, but soon fell asleep, his snoring echoing through the vicinity.

  A short nap sobered him up slightly, and he was much steadier on all fours. A few attempts later, he managed to stand on wobbly legs and take a couple of steps on what felt like cotton wool. Lifting his eyes from the ground, he noticed two children on the road. He'd never been good at guessing ages, so he pegged them at around six or seven. They looked terribly thin, as if they'd been starved for a long time. Dirty faces and tangled hair made it hard to tell their gender. Instead of clothes, they wore what resembled burlap sacks with holes cut out for their heads and arms.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  What the hell? Where are the cops? This is child abuse! His brows furrowed. Where the hell have I ended up anyway? Africa? No. The kids look more Asian, maybe with some European mixed in. Ah, who the fuck cares. What kind of dump is this?

  On both sides of the alley where he'd woken up stood rows of flimsy buildings with thatched roofs in a peculiar ancient Eastern style. To his modern eyes, they were the real deal—slums. The world's forgotten back alley.

  "Um... kids," he croaked, "Where am I? What is this place?"

  "On our street? At home?" they answered, exchanging frightened glances.

  "Didn't catch that. Home? No, no. What city? What country?"

  "Baohe City. W-we don't know the country. Sorry," the children were shaking with fear for some reason.

  "It's fine," he said, trying to sound reassuring. "Okay."

  Eastern name. Possibly Chinese. Better ask at a police station tomorrow.

  After a quick pat-down, he found no bag, no phone, none of his usual belongings. Instead of proper clothes, he was draped in someone's cast-off, baggy rags. Empty pockets, threadbare knees on the trousers, nothing of value. Probably, the locals had already picked him clean. He had nothing left to lose, so he didn't feel his life was in any immediate danger.

  "Kids, I need a place to crash for the night. Don't wanna sleep on the street. Where can I go?"

  "Home?" the older child answered, guiltily staring at the ground.

  "I don't get it. Just show me where to go. Or get your parents."

  The kids pointed fingers at the nearest house and vanished inside themselves. Swaying on unsteady legs, he followed them in. His gaze swept over the wretched interior. The house consisted of one large room with a hearth in the center; the floorboards were covered in a thick layer of dirt and sand tracked in from the street, cobwebs hung from the ceiling, and stars were visible through the holes in the roof.

  "Can I stay here? Thanks. Where are your parents?"

  "Right here," the older child said, on the verge of tears, pointing a finger at him.

  "Looks like we're not understanding each other. I'm still nauseous, my head's pounding, and I don't have the energy to figure this out. I'll lie down right here. At least it's not outside. You invited me in, and now you're scared. Should I leave?"

  The children's faces were masks of confusion and panic; they shook their heads vigorously. Huddling in the far corner, the little ragamuffins pressed against each other and didn't take their eyes off him. Fear was reflected in their wide, unblinking stares.

  Ugh. Their weirdness is making my headache worse. Whatever. I'll just lie down and sleep it off. Hopefully, the parents won't kill me on sight when they show up. Just... no strength left. He collapsed onto a straw mat and was out instantly.