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Following the death of his mother, Erzo Traliz, finds himself walking the broken, racist, streets of the slums tired, and hungry. All the while, unsure of who he is without her. He wants to survive just like any other twelve-year-old boy, which means his hands might get a little sticky. People simply do not miss what they do not know is missing. This includes even the lowest quality of food. But what about high-quality food? Would they still miss it?