For Scootaloo, the worst part of being homeless was the sheer amount of time it took up.

There were nightly dumpster dives for anything edible or useful. Honey’s Bakeshop could be counted on for day-old bread and muffins, and on lucky evenings other restaurants around Ponyville would toss enough to make a decent meal, but no icebox meant saving any of it was nigh impossible.

After school was the time to ask for odd jobs at the various shops around town. Sturdy Craft, the aging hardware store owner, usually had something on account of his aching knees. When asked about a steady job, however, he refused. “A little filly like you shouldn't worry so much about money,” he said. “That's your parents’ job.” She didn’t push. Pushing would lead to questions, and questions could land her back in the Manehattan orphanage she’d run away from three years ago. As it was, she could count on earning about fifteen bits a week, not enough to live off but enough to keep her from starving in a pinch. Probably.

The weekend meant a trip to the dump outside of town. It was where she had found the old ratchet set she used to keep her scooter tuned, as well as the few other things she counted among her belongings.

She wasn't really homeless, she liked to think when she was in a cheerful mood. She had a home, it just wasn't what most ponies thought of when they heard the word.

Under Quills and Sofas was a cellar meant for back stock; but thanks to a keen understanding of inventory, Davenport never used it. And that meant it was a big, mostly empty room that no one ever went into.

Scootaloo had noticed the unlocked cellar doors one night while rummaging in the dumpster. Unlike most doors she was used to seeing, there was no lock, and because they faced the alley and not the street she could come and go as she pleased. At first she’d just kept an eye on her discovery, surreptitiously watching the doors. After a week of not seeing anypony enter or leave she grew bolder. When she was sure no one was watching, she had placed a few rocks on the door. Every morning she'd check to see if the rocks moved, and after a week went by with them staying perfectly still, she took her first peek inside.

Her original idea had been to use the cellar as part of her network of dry places to sleep—a network that included a small cave near the lake and a run-down house on the outskirts of town. But the cave had a snake problem and construction had begun on the house. The Crusaders’ clubhouse was another option, but the Apples were early risers, and if they ever found her sleeping there… well, Scootaloo doubted she could lie well enough to keep them from meddling. So she had taken to spending every night in the cellar.

Quills and Sofas closed at seven, so there was never anyone above her when she was ready to settle in for the night, and as long as she was out by eight in the morning she could leave before whoever was opening the store that day came in.

Being homeless meant finding value in things most ponies wouldn't look twice at: scraps of food, old clothes, empty bottles and so on. So while most ponies would have seen a dusty cellar, Scootaloo saw four walls and a ceiling that would keep rain and thieves off her meager possessions. And a secluded place away from prying eyes.

On her first night, Scootaloo was terrified somepony would find her. But nopony ever did. And so the defunct storage cellar became her base of operations.

One cold night in the middle of winter, Scootaloo found herself shivering as she tried to fall asleep. It hadn’t been a particularly bad day, she had gotten enough to eat, but it was colder than usual. No ventilation meant she couldn’t light a fire, and though she’d found a space heater at the dump a few weeks ago, she hadn’t quite figured out how to fix it.

So she crawled onto the stack of cardboard that served as her mattress—it kept her off the cold ground anyway—and under a few blankets that were just warm enough to keep her from freezing.

Scootaloo shut her eyes tight and tried to imagine a different life. She wasn't in a dark cellar, she was in a real house with thick walls and a roaring fire, crackling as she settled next to it. . Thanks Rainbow Dash, she imagined herself saying as Rainbow draped a wing over her.

No problem, Squirt. Sure is cold outside, I'm glad we're in here instead of out there.

Scootaloo shifted slightly and the rush of cold air shattered her fantasy. She squeezed her eyes so tightly trying to recapture the illusion that a single warm tear slid down her cheek, but it was for naught.

Fine, she thought bitterly. It's cold, I'm in a cellar on top of some flattened boxes with a blanket that needs to be three times thicker. I. Don't. Care. So either kill me or let me go to sleep.

It wasn’t the first time she had railed against the forces of fate and consequences that had led her here; but just like all the other times, nothing happened. She remained both wide awake and miserably cold until exhaustion overtook her.

Scootaloo woke up shivering to the sound of her alarm clock. Her teeth chattered and she pulled her blanket around her tighter, hoping to trap some warmish air, pinning her foreleg under her in the process. Before long the resulting ache forced Scootaloo to roll over, breaking her cocoon. She growled and threw the blanket off completely, succumbing once again to the inevitable. She rubbed her hooves together trying to regain some feeling in her extremities. I hate winter.

As usual, her first real thought was the faint hope that she might get her cutie mark today.

All children in Equestria wanted to get their mark, it was a rite of passage. For Scootaloo, however, a mark meant a job, and possibly a way out.

Show up at the local farrier with a blank flank and ask for an apprenticeship, and maybe you'd get a quick lesson. Show up with a horseshoe mark and an example of your talent, and you'd be smelting ore by the end of the day.

But her flank was still plain orange. There was school to attend, junk to scavenge and bits to earn.

It was time to do it all over again.