They're not street kids. They're just kids in the neighborhood --maybe being raised by grandparents, maybe sometimes missing a meal or two, always hungry and adorably cute. Heidi, the lady we're renting a room from, feeds them, teaches them to say please and thank you, takes them shopping on their birthdays, entertains them with stories and good advice and generally shows them someone cares.

I'm moved by their stories. 

 "He has a rough life", she says of the little boy eating pancakes and peanut butter at her dining room table tonight. "The grandmother has NO money and yet somehow manages to feed him. Sometimes I'm just amazed how they survive," she says.

 Earlier he'd walked out of here with a "sewing kit" she'd made up for him. A needle, a little thread and a tiny button. He was thrilled.