A rusted-sheet-metal-clad shanty in Kebon Malati. That was the slum where twenty-year-old Angkasa and her mom, who now worked as a day maid for a wealthy family, and younger brother lived in central Jakarta. Her father’s tragically cruel, lightning-strike death while harvesting coffee beans in East Java nineteen months prior precipitated the family’s move to Indonesia’s massive capital for income replacement. They joined the throngs of poor rural families who, via the inducement of employment, even if for meager wages, migrate to the burgeoning Southeast Asia metropolis. On an archetypical, equatorial-sauna, hot-flat-yellow-sun-disk-beginning-to-rapidly-dive, late Wednesday afternoon (5:02 PM on August 24, 2016), Angkasa began walking to work down a paver-stoned service alley. She soon came to a sidewalk-less, curb-less, asphalt street (Jl. Tenaga Listrik) and turned left. She looked to her right over a mound of trash that was propped against a meter-high (39”) floodwall. A sediment-laden, tempeh-brown, polluted-with-plastics Ciliwung River was barely moving. Angkasa then glanced up at the skyscrapers looming ahead. She mused. Two distinctly different worlds so close together: lavish prosperity and extreme poverty. Wonder if one of those richies [sic] could make it through a single week down here. Or, a single night. I’m sure that they would freak out to live like we have to. Do they view us as an inferior subspecies? Lesser humans? Because we’re less sly? Hmmm … I wonder. Maybe just negative thinking. Need to stop it. Papa constantly said that nothing positive comes from negativity.