You move through the thinning crowd like a shadow, your bare feet silent on the packed earth. Your stomach is a hollow knot. The baker’s stall is just ahead, the last of the day’s flatbreads cooling on a stone slab as the vendor argues with a customer over the price of dates.

A flick of the wrist, a twist of the body, and the warm bread is tucked against your ribs beneath your ragged tunic. You’re already turning, melting back into the flow of people.

You dart down a narrow alley, leap over a sleeping dog, and skid into a wider lane. The sounds of pursuit are fading. Easy. It’s always easy.

You don’t see the small figure until it’s too late. A child, no more than five, chasing a wooden ball that has rolled into your path from a side courtyard.

There’s a collision. A soft oomph. The world tilts.

You hit the ground hard, the stolen bread flying from your grasp. The child lands in a heap a few feet away, begins to wail.