Little boy, torn page

Prompt: Use the following words in your story: Little boy, torn page, market, and cart. (Taken from creativewritingprompts.com)

The streets were desolate at dawn. All the work was being done indoors. Weary mothers rubbed their eyes and began breakfast preparations, farmhands were already drinking their second cup of coffee having milked the cows and gathered the eggs. Shop keepers were preparing to leave their homes, the days paperwork was stacked by the door with hopes of better profits.
On the empty streets, as the first light was just beginning to splay across the rooftops, the little boy yawned openly with no one to tell him to cover his mouth. He blinked back the fatigue and reached into his pocket to touch it another time. He knew it was there. He could feel it even though it only weighed an ounce or so. Still, he was nervous that something would happen to it, and then he'd really be in trouble.
He arrived at the inconspicuous shop and looked for the yellow stripe of paint on the door, just as he was told to do. The stripe was so small the boy imagined that a bumblebee had met it's demise there, it's squished yellow body a sacrifice for the cause. As he was studying the door, a large yet quiet man approached from behind and startled him. "Do you have it boy?" he asked, calmly yet urgently. The young boy reached into his pocket, unsure exactly why his transport was so important but aware that it was somehow a matter of life and death. "Yes Sir, I've got it," he replied. He trusted this man and was glad to be helping him, was glad that he had done a good job in delivering the torn page, but his family could not afford a good deed done simply out of goodness. "Do you have my money?" he asked with contrived boldness.
The man stood taller and with a strained smile, he looked around quickly. "Of course, my boy. You did a good job," he said, while deftly slipping a few coins into the boys pocket. As quickly and quietly as he had come the man was gone, leaving the boy on the curb, fingering his precious hidden coins.
While a few months ago, coins in the boy's pocket would have meant a visit to the market for candy and treats, today it meant milk for his sick sister and bread for his family. He stood tall imitating the big man who had now become his rescuer and walked slowly down the street, proud of the responsibility he carried for providing for his family today. His glorious moment was stifled by the sound of hooves racing behind him. He turned just in time to leap out of the way as a horse and cart barrelled by. It passed quickly but the fumes of death emanating from it lingered on the street, marking it for despair. It was the death wagon. The residents weren't allowed moments of victory and hope. They were constantly reminded of their situation by the death all around. The once tall boy, now slumped his shoulders and retraced his steps back toward home.