The vinegar bottle weeps again, sweat trailing down its side like a secret. On the edge of the plastic tarpaulin, flies hum their gospel above a tray of overripe bananas. It’s too hot for customers, too late for laundry, too early for sins. 

Somewhere between the creak of a rusty tricycle and a child’s whistle gone flat, a game begins. Tagu-taguan. One counts, the rest scatter. 

Beyond this scatter are new shoes, white, hard-soled, the kind that creak with unfamiliar guilt. Collared polo, half-tucked. Too clean. Too rehearsed. 

“Pwede pong makisali?” One of the kids named Jonas nodded.

“Saling pusa ka lang, ah.” And that was that.

The boy didn’t hide but walked and watched. He wasn’t playing, not really.

His step is too calm for the game’s rhythm. Stop by the bike near the gutter. Fingers slide into the pouch. White powder and coins. Just these two. No shouting. No name. No “taya”. 

One of them sees. Eyes lock. Look away. Said nothing. 

Hindi naman siya taya. Saling pusa lang. 

Sundown creek where whispers curl from the corner store to my sari-sari’s steps. Announced the missing coins. Some blamed the wind. Others blamed each other. Only Mateo remained silent. 

“Ikaw ba?! Nakita mo kung sino kumuha?” Jonas asks, voice low but building the fire. 

Mateo remained silent until shadows moved with men in polo barong, swarming the new boy. The sun disappears, but the night is still stretching its jaw. 

But when the police arrive, it’s Jonas they take. The pouch is searched—white powder, coins. His hands pulled behind his back.

No one spoke, but Jonas screamed. No one screamed, but Jonas’ silence was fired. 

Some just know how to play without ever being tagged.