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A heavy smell enveloped the locker room after the last hour of physical culture, clinging to the skin like an invisible layer. The dampness from the sweat of the tired children, mixed with the scent of the cheap disinfectant they sprayed after every hour, created a fog that stuck in the throat. The old neon lamps flickered a little, casting cold light on the cracked floor tiles and worn wooden benches. Ana stood with her back against the heavy metal door, as if looking for support that didn't exist. Her thin, gnawed-nailed toes gripped the old sneakers tightly—those white shoes that had once been new, but were now torn at the soles and stained dry from the mud of the field. Her thin body shivered slightly, not only from the cold coming in from the open windows, but from the shame burning in her throat. His eyes were fixed down on Klea's shoes: white, clean, expensive, with brands Ana only saw in advertisements. Those shoes looked like they were from another world – a world where people