“You got the racing edition?â€? I asked, foregoing my butchering of the Cantonese language in the hopes that the Chinese woman inside the kiosk box understood English.

“Not ready yet,â€? she said, nodding her head at stacks of sections from a multitude of newspapers waiting to be hand-assembled into one edition; an edition for those in the know, and only for those who know where to shop. “You need coupons?â€? she asked with a smile, holding forth a sheaf of four-color patchwork.

“No, thanks,â€? I said.

The woman licked her thin lips and non-chalantly tossed the coupons sideways, proceeding to busy herself. A little girl, maybe nine-years-old — almost certainly her daughter — was sitting at a makeshift desk inside the kiosk. A jerry-rigged bare bulb provided the only light the child saw all day, the dim light reflected off of silver scissors she flashed open-and-shut as she chopped the coupon sheets into individual discounts, sorting them into groups of the same without even giving a second thought.