[ WP ] Light is one of the goods that can be traded and sold . The poor live in darkness , but for the the rich people , it 's time to shine .

The Underneath was not a kind place. But that was okay. 
 
 Learning to live in a not-kind place was difficult, but doable. You get grime between your fingers. You begin to see without the light that the privileged used. You *adjusted. * For example, when the weekly rations ran dry in the Underneath's town hall, I had switched to pawing though more more fortunate folk's garbage cans for something to eat. 
 
 I was searching through a can when I had heard her. A reserved cry, most likely two blocks from where I stationed. Immediately, I stopped what I was doing and dashed towards her noise. She had probably just alerted half of the Underneath - when sitting in the shadows long enough, one tends to improve every other sense. 
 
 She wandered about in the road, looking every which way for an answer. Her facial features were squished, contorted. She was squinting. Around her neck was a pendant, holding encapsulated light, bright enough to give her an aura, and me a headache. Yet, even with the capsule of light, she stumbled around like a child in the dark. Even my eyes, still considered new in the Underneath, could see that her otherwise perfect dress was already muddied by the ground. 
 
 She's was n't from around here. 
 
 I watch as she continues to aimlessly wander on the path, arms sticking out in front of her like an undead. Occasionally, she gets close to a dilapidated house, or broken carriage. At one occasion, she strays exceedingly close to streetlamp. When she almost bangs her head, I find myself speaking up. 
 
 `` Careful. There's a streetlamp there.'' 
 
 She flinches, and almost hits the useless iron rod; I stop her by putting my hand on her shoulder. The girl unexpectedly turns around, and I'm staring into her clueless, watering eyes. She does n't scream, or cry, or do anything else that I've heard the lost ones do. She just stares blankly into my eyes, and asks me a question. 
 
 `` Why does a place that needs no light need a streetlamp?'' 
 
 I tell her to quiet down some. Others must have heard her bumbling by now. She asks the question again. 
 
 `` They used to work,'' I whisper, `` but they do n't anymore''. 
 
 She scrunches up her face, as if it was a dumb answer. `` But that's stupid! Why do n't they just fix them?'' 
 
 `` You're from the Topsoil, are n't you?'' I question. Her logic is silly. Things do n't get fixed here. She nods into the darkness to confirm. 
 
 `` I fell off my family's caravan. I do n't know where I am. Do you know how to get out of here?'' 
 
 I laugh. `` You're in the Underneath, darling.'' 
 
 She pauses, and somehow, her eyes get even wider. She takes a step back from me, and almost back into the streetlamp `` I ca n't... No! I do n't belong here. Look, sir-'' 
 
 `` Oswald.'' 
 
 `` Oswald,'' she breathes quickly, taking in the damp air too quickly, `` You have to get me out of here. My poor family, they must be worried sick!'' 
 
 I shush her again, telling her she's getting rather loud once more. She does n't seem to care. She points to her too-bright necklace, and says exactly the wrong the thing much too loudly. 
 
 `` Oswald, I'll pay you.'' 
 
 Out from behind a house, a group of Underneath teenagers leap to their feet. Some of them have tattered bandannas tied around their faces, and others are holding sharp weapons, carved from rusted metal. They were waiting for something like this. I grab onto the girl's hand, and she pulls away. 
 
 `` It's really... grimy,'' She says. 
 
 `` Not the time,'' I reply. I grab on again, and start running. 
 

