There was running.
At the Quezon Avenue train station, there were two boys running, running away as the man in uniform calmly grabs one of the delinquents by the back of his shirt. The children’s skins had been sun-baked but matted with dust. One could easily tell that they’d been sleeping on the station staircase. One of boys managed to push his way against the crowd up the escalator. He had long brown hair and a cigarette in his hand. He didn’t look back as his companion was pushed and pulled inside the train station proper. “This is what you want, right?” said the guard as he lifted the steel gates.
“Hindi po. Hindi na po.” The boy struggled.
(writing practice inspired by unphotographable.com)