The bone-shattering blast of the bullet shattered the silence and tension which had filled the room like an ominous cloud just a moment ago. It had all happened so quickly that Lucia, who now stood frozen with the gun grasped firmly in her hand (as though she feared that by allowing its release, the man on the floor would rise up), could only stare at the corpse in a combination of shock, amazement, relief, and horror. It was the body of a man nearing middle age, his blonde hair beginning to grow gray and the faintest wrinkles growing apparent near his cold green eyes. His mouth was set in a firm, hard line which seemed to hold unpleasant, unsaid remarks. He was a tall, slender man who had obviously been an athlete in college. The last breath which had escaped his lips a split second ago lingered in the air and was laced with the aroma of expensive cigars and far too much liquor for any one person to handle. Clad in a freshly-laundered gray suit and wine-colored tie, he lay on his back on the lush, Persian carpet, his arms and legs bent in an extremely awkward position. A pool of warm blood was gathering under his head and spreading swiftly.

The girl, a dark-haired (natural, deep red highlights evident throughout her tresses) with attractive elfin featured, mahogany eyes, and tanned skin crumbled to the ground in terror. The sound of her panicked, fractured breathing was the only noise in the room now. She gently placed the gun beside her on the carpet and vaguely wondered if the blood would spread that far. Pushing a lock of hair out of her face, she studied the cadaver with fearful eyes.

"Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God," she murmured to herself, over and over. The repetition of the phrase helped to calm her a bit.

Come on, Lucia, get it tahgethah, she thought to herself with more self-control than she felt existed in her spirit at the time. So ya shot a guy; dis is no time ta turn inta a tremblin' mouse.

She drew a deep breath and sluggishly rose to her feet, ordering her legs to stay firm beneath her. Pushing the gun under a nearby comfortable forest green couch where no one had dusted in at least a month, she cast one final glance at the corpse before staggering out of the room.

Unfortunately, there's a limit as to how much one can lie to oneself, even in dire situations. Lucia raced for the bathroom where she was quietly sick for the next several minutes, followed by an exodus of tears and shaking so fiercely that she imagined she would fly apart at any given moment.

Leaning against the elegant flowered wallpaper, she brushed teardrops out of her eyes with the back of her hand and attempted to think rationally again.

I shot a man. Dat would mean trouble for me, especially wid DIS corpse. Geez, Lucia, ya had ta go and woik for a politician, didn't ya? she scoffed disdainfully at herself. Maybe...maybe da cops'll believe me if I tell dem what really happened. Aw, dat'll nevah woik! Dey'd t'row a goil like me in jail as quick as look at me. Okay, t'ink, t'ink!

She pressed her fingers to her temples in concentration. At least dis mansion ain't in da middle of da city.... I'd have been in prison da minute I pulled da triggah. I still got time, but not dat much.... All right, come on, come on! A thought struck her then, and slowly an idea was forming. What do people do when dey get inta trouble? Dey hit da road, of coise! I need somewheah ta go, somewheah da bulls wouldn't t'ink ta look for me, like Boston (nah, too hoity-toity) or San Diego (nope, too far) or New Yawk City. Yeah, dat's it, New Yawk! I lived deah once...and hey, I already got da accent. I can just blend in wid da crowd, no one'll evah notice me. Aw, shit, I hope dis woiks.

Rising unsteadily to her feet, she marched from the bathroom and into the foyer where her ancient pocketbook (something retrieved from the garbage years ago) lay stop of a lengthy, expensive table. She knew that inside rested a wad of bills ('pay upfront' was her motto) which would allow her the train ride to Manhattan and maybe even a sandwich. She reached for the doorknob and as she turned it, tried to block the sight of the bleeding corpse out of her mind.

"I heard the shot around one o'clock, one-thirty at night," a stocky many with a thick, gray mustache informed a thin detective who wore a tan duster which practically hung to his heels.

"One o'clock to one-thirty?" the detective reiterated solemnly. In the next room, the living room of the summer estate of the celebrated Senator John Bainsworth, several police officers were gathering evidence and covering the body of the senator himself in a deep gray blanket. "Could you say closer to one o'clock?"

The man thought seriously for a moment, and then nodded. "Yeah, it probably was. I live nearby in a small cabin, the only one around for miles. I usually go hunting for deer around this area, but it's not deer season. That's why I was surprised to hear the shots. I thought it might be someone shooting out of season. I never thought it was MURDER."

The detective never shuddered at that word. In his mind, murder was only a matter for such emotion if one had no hope of solving the case. And he never let a criminal slip from his grasp.

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Jenks. We genuinely appreciate this."

"Don't mention it, my pleasure, Detective Sarmons," the older man answered with a complaisant nod. "I really hope you find the killer."

"Trust me," the detective drawled, his voice chilling and his eyes dogged, "I will."

The wintry moonlight streamed into the nearly empty passenger car and enclosed the scantly-clad Lucia in an icy blanket. She shivered and wrapped her arms tightly around herself in hopes of fighting back the hypothermia. Well, I couldn't exactly head ta pick up more clothes, she told herself with a slightly bitter tone and frowned deeply. Most other passangers on the last train to New York city had cast her disgusted glimpses as she took her seat among them. At least no one had decided to sit with her; she had enough on her mind without worrying about other people.

She pressed her palm to the frigid glass of the windowpane and stared at the scenery, strange and shadowy, whirling by. It was as though she were watching her life disappearing along with the snow-covered trees. And somehow this concept didn't frighten Lucia in the slightest. Maybe I can actually start fresh in New Yawk, not like when I moved to Chicago. Maybe I can get a real job and people won't look down on me like dey do now. Scowling bitterly, she muttered silently and facetiously, Yeah, and people are jus' so great. Well, who gives a damn about any of dem, anyhow? I can get along on my own jus' fine, t'anks. Gazing upwards, she caught sight of the glorious full moon which seemed to travel with her. I got da moon, who needs anyone else? She forced a smile upon her lips and decided to get some sleep. She would need to be rested if she was planning on looking for work in the morning. But behind her eyelids, she could still see the corpse, blood gushing from the large wound in his head. She flung her eyelids back open and forced the image out of her mind. She just needed to suppress it, to just forget about it and it would be over.

As she drifted off to sleep, Lucia prayed that this scene would never come back to haunt her....

New York had never known such a hot, dusty summer. It seemed as though the merciless sun had caused all of the water and life of the city to simply vanish. A feverish, dry wind occasionally whipped across the streets but it brought no relief from the unbearable sun; in fact, it only seemed to increase the heat. Even at night, it was still far too warm to come close to any sort of comfort. Those who had the means immediately raced to their elegant, massive summer homes in the mountains and by a crystal lake at the first sign of unpleasant weather. Everyone else was forced to stay and simply had to wait for rain.

Specs pushed his cap up just slightly and wiped away the perspiration gathered at his forehead with the back of his hand. Night was just beginning to fall and he wondered how in the world was he going to sell his last three papers. No one seemed inclined to read about the affairs of Washington in this weather. He didn't blame them, however; who needed that extra aggravation?

Out of the corner of his eye, the newsie glanced at a cart selling ice-cold lemonades to young children dressed in spotless sailor suits and accompanied by no-nonsense, cold (even in this weather) nannies in dresses of various shades of gray. Man, for jus' one of dose... he thought as he gazed at the refreshing drink, and then shook his head. Not befoah ya sell dese papes.

"Lightnin' strikes da Statue of Libahty!" he called to those passing by and prayed that someone would give a damn about the 'slightly improved' article on page nine. "Panic and chaos at da famous monument!"

"Face it, Specs, ya're gonna be eatin' dose papes tahnight," a familiar, frank voice responded to his cries. Shadow strolled up to the tall boy and leaned against a nearby wall.He rolled his eyes.

"T'anks so much for da vote of confidence."

Shrugging indifferently, the dark-haired girl whose red highlights were particularly evident in this sunlight skimmed through one of her last newspapers. "Ya might as well get used ta da truth. Oddahwise ya start believin' in t'ings dat ain't nevah gonna happen. And ya ain't gonna sell dose papes by tahnight, it's jus' da way t'ings are."

"Yeah, but da truth is dat I'm gonna sell my last papes," Specs replied boastfully.

Shadow's frown deepened when the newsie sold another copy to a wealthy young man not a minute later.

Puffing up proudly, he turned to the dark-haired girl and grinned. "So, whadda ya say ta dat, Miss Doubtin' My Excellent Abilities?"

"I say," she replied dryly as she checked her nails for the usual ink and grim, "dat da people of New Yawk are gettin' way too guillible dese days." She cast the figure of the retreating wealthy boy a withering glance before returning her usual, serious and enigmatic statement back to Specs.

"Eiddah way, I'm not eatin' any papes tahnight," he replied somewhat arrogantly and even more teasingly. Then he nodded down the block, saying, "Hey, let's try and sell dese last ones on our way ta Tibby's. I'm about ready ta eat my own hat."

Shadow smiled despite herself as she followed the newsie, thinking that Specs would be barely recognizable without the cap he always donned. It would be like Spot without his cane, Race without a cigar, and Jack without his infamous cowboy hat. Of course, there had been that one time during the strike when Jack had turned into a scab (the very mental image of Jack dressed in scab garb still made the majority of newsies sick to their stomachs) that he had been without his hat. The newsgirl thought back to that day, with the cries of "Stop the World! No more papes!" echoing in her ears and the heat seemingly almost as unbearable as it was today, and recalled that she hadn't been as shocked as her fellow strikers to see Jack on the other side of the line. Several of the boys had attempted to charge their former leader, but Shadow had merely stayed to the back of the crowd and regarded Jack with cool, calm eyes. It was as though she had been expecting it all along, as though she expected everyone to disappoint her eventually. It was a simple fact of life for Shadow, just as truthful as the facts that the Delancy brothers stunk and that improving the headlines sold more papes than merely using those created by the over-paid World writers were.

Everyone hurt you eventually; it didn't matter whether it was accidental or intentional. It still happened.

Just as Specs and Shadow were about to turn a corner, the girl caught sight of a policeman several blocks away and in the midst of a crowd of denizens. As always when she saw an officer, her cheeks paled slightly and her eyes widened like a deer's as it stared down the barrel of a rifle. She grabbed Specs' arm. "Come on," she muttered and bolted around the corner, practically dragging him for three blocks before he yanked his arm away from her death grip.

"What's wid ya?" he demanded, staring at the girl as though she were severely mentally disturbed. Of course, he reminded himself, this was Shadow he was talking about. No one really knew anything about her and even less people understood the meaning behind the majority of her actions.

She glanced behind to make certain that the cop hadn't trailed behind (despite the fact that the man, with his pot belly and stubby legs, had seemed unable to race very fast or very far anywhere). "Not'ing," she murmured and didn't feel the need to explain further.

Specs shrugged, used to such behavior, and began strolling down the sidewalk as though nothing had happened. He waved a newspaper at arm's length above his head and shouted about an article on page seven, which was actually about the political stances of the Progressives and the Republicans, but which the newsie proclaimed to be about a brawl between two well-known, elderly politicians.

"Blood in da Senate! Fists flyin' in Congress!"

As she followed Specs, Shadow found herself lost in thought. The sight of a policeman always induced a rat-like chill in the girl's spine, despite the fact that she made very certain that she was never in any trouble with the cops of New York City. While other newsies gambled, occasionally swiped a pear from a street cart while a vendor's back was turned, or practically threw themselves into fights with scabs, Shadow preferred to stay on the fringe of such activities. Sure, that frigid night had occurred several years ago; the Chicago police had most likely ceased their search for her, and the New York bulls probably cared even less about her whereabouts. Despite this, however, she was still unable to glance at a policeman or politician without feeling her throat close up for a split second. Forget it, she told herself as she and Specs (amazingly) sold their last few papers and strolled to meet their fellow newsies at Tibby's. No one's gonna find ya. It happened years ago; nobody gives a damn about some long-since dead politician, especially now dat Teddy Roosevelt has his eye on da Presidency. Ya're safe, just as long as ya don't get inta any unnecessary trouble. Ya got off scott-free, Shadow, so jus' quit worryin' about it.

She would later recall those as her famous last words.

A tall man with a body that still retained some of the athletic grace it had possessed in its college days sat calmly in the nearly empty train car and scanned the sports section of a Chicago newspaper as though it were any other day and any other journey. He mentally cursed the weather and the perspiration which was beginning to gather under his formerly well-ironed gray suit. His hair, which had once been thick and the color of dark honey, was turning scant and light as a result of age and years of frustration. Wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and mouth were now apparent to even the less keen of observers. And yet, despite the seemingly endless months of fruitless searching, Joseph Sarmons was beginning to feel a youthful anticipation bubbling in his veins.

Three years, he reminded himself for the thousandth time that day, three long years finally coming to an end.

The case of the mysteriously murmured Senator Bainsworth had haunted the detective for years. It seemed as though the killer had vanished into thin air. While other police officers told him that the identity of the murderer was to remain forever an enigma, Detective Sarmons refused to believe them. I always find my man, was his motto, along with, By any means necessary. He would not allow a killer to run free, no matter how long it took him to track the fiend down.

And it had taken him years. No one seemed to have the slightest clue even as to why the senator would have even been at his summer home in the middle of winter. This case, with its constant dead ends and unreliable witnesses, had driven Sarmons to near insanity.

Yet, after years of tireless efforts, he had finally discovered the identity of the killer.

A young girl named Lucia Navar.

And she was somewhere in New York City.

"Last stop, Manhattan!" the booming voice of the conductor echoed throughout the car, causing the detective's lips to curve into a nearly unnoticeable, slightly maniacal grin.

At Tibby's, there was the usual throng of newsboys and newsgirls, all chattering, laughing, and boasting about the sales of the day (highly exaggerated versions, naturally, and the most far-fetched stories coming from a corner of the room where Pocket was declaring how she had sold forty papers to a gaggle of nuns). As soon as Specs and Shadow stepped into the restaurant, they could clearly hear Racetrack moaning about his losses at the track.

"Nevah trust a Fifty-Eighth Street factory kid about da hoises. Gotta listen ta da Harlem kids." Cole and Kid Blink were getting friendly in a booth, and Twink was clutching her stomach as she pretended t retch at the sight. Jack, Violet, Painter, and Swifty were making plans to visit the lodging house in the Bronx later that week. Sam, Tibby's infamous waiter whom everyone knew secretly longed to act on Broadway, was serving Les and a few of the younger newsies plates of hotdogs and cups of sarsaparilla.

"Man, am I stawved," Specs remarked loudly as he and Shadow slid into two uncomfortable chairs positioned around a long table. "At least ain't plannin' on eatin' any papes tahnight."

"Quit braggin'," Twink shot back with venom dripping from her tongue. The girl flipped her long, tangled tresses over her shoulder and, rolling her eyes, crossed her arms over her chest.

"Bad day, shorty?" was what Specs, a teasing grin already plastered on his lips, had intended to say. He actually only got out, "Bad day," when he was whacked over the back of the head by Violet and Bumlets. Shadow merely eyed the boy with her common detached, mysterious statement which left one to wonder about just what the girl was thinking of.

Specs' eyes widened and he threw up his hands in confusion and irritation. "What?" he demanded, looking to his two attackers- who shook their heads in wordless rebuke- and then resting his gaze on Shadow. "What'd I do?"

She studied him silently for a moment (Specs guessed to either gather her thoughts or for the mere dramatic effect). "No maddah what, everybody has da lone wolf instinct," she murmured, so low that even Specs could catch her words over the din. But the boy knew very well that even if he had heard Shadow, she wouldn't have continued to explain herself any further; so instead of pursuing the matter, he ordered a roast beef sandwich and a sarsaparilla.

As she gazed around the room, Shadow contemplated her own remark. Everybody leaves or screws ya ovah eventu'lly, and dat's dat, she sighed silently and began to recall years ago, when she had barely been big enough to carry a paper, let alone sell it. When she had lived (or if you could call a life like that living; when she really thought about it- something she'd prefer not to do- she knew that under those terms, she hadn't done much living during her seventeen years) in the Bronx, was called Lucia, and stayed huddled in shadowy corners of the tenement (where she could not be seen from much of a distance) without fear of the rats or roaches which freely and frequently stalked the room. What she actually feared were the empty bottles of hard liquor strewn over the dusty floor, their aroma still potent even after several days. They were weapons if she ever saw one. The drink alone- whiskey, brandy, anything and everything- would turn her father, Ram, into a raging maniac, his eyes bloodshot and his voice so loud it threatened to shatter the entire building. She wished it had shattered all the bottles of alcohol everywhere. But then her father could simply use the shards of glass to cut her, which he sometimes did if she managed to get in his way or make any sort of irritating noise or even breathe. Shadow still bore several scars, marks that ran through her skin and into something far more complex and fragile. Lucia learned at a very young age to stay silently and hidden, like a shadow.

Her mother hadn't been any better. Maybe I could have taken it if she had done somet'ing, anyt'ing ta help, Shadow mused without allowing herself to feel any emotion at the thought, in fear that tears would pool in her eyes right in front of everyone at Tibby's. But she couldn't stop herself from thinking of her mother.

She recalled her mother's dark hair, the same as Shadow's own. And yet it wasn't the same. Her mother, Carmen, had been forced to cut her locks very short as a result of an accident at the factory where she worked. When she was younger, Lucia often wondered if her hair had been where her emotions resided, and why her mother always seemed elsewhere in every sense of the word. But now she ahd to admit that her mother had always been that way, even when Lucia had been in the cradle. Carmen was always sitting somewhere, silently smoking a steady stream of cigarettes and gulping down quarts of cheap gin.

Shadow didn't recollect how she had decided to run away. Maybe it had been a headline shouted at the top of some Bronx newsie's lungs: 'Son ta millionaire attempts ta run away ta join a travelin' band of acrobats!' Or maybe it came to her as she left the tenement building one day, wishing never to return and finally decided to make that wish come true. Or perhaps it had always been in the back of her mind, something she had been born with and took a while to realize. Whatever the reason, Lucia had found herself on the unkind streets of New York City by the time she was seven years old.

I must've looked like some kinda animal, she thought and absently took a sip of her sarsaparilla, wid my dark, tangled hair and my torn, dirty clothin' and dat wild look in my eyes like I woulda ripped apart anybody who tried ta mess wid me.

The ghost of a gunshot blasted through her mind.

T'ink about somet'ing else, anyt'ing else, Shadow said to herself, feeling as though she could vomit up the stale bread and week coffee from that morning. But memories forced themselves upon her. Street cornahs, guys ya nevah knew, cold hands along your skin, sick smells, emptiness.

"Hey, Shadow," a small voice greeted uncertainly, and Shadow was thrown out of her memories to see Ivy take a seat beside her. Crutchy was moving to sit next to Specs, and the two were already in a deep conversation concerning which of the day's headlines had been the best to improve (Specs was declaring it had been an article about a golf tournament in Long Island, while Crutchy held out for one concerning the mayor's heart condition). "Are you all right?"

Her heart still pounding loud enough to be heart in parts of Connecticut, Shadow nodded with a perfectly calm statement and was silently but extremely thankful that Ivy had come along when she did. "Yeah, I'm fine."

Maybe aftah killin' dat Senatah Baineswoith, I'm more likely ta really kill somebody else, she mused solemnly and fearfully as her eyes blinked open to reveal a slightly blurry version of the girls' bunkroom.

"She followed me down da staircase, screamin' woise dan any banshee evah has. 'I'll get you, Hetty Thomas!' she shrieked at me. 'If it's da last t'ing I do, I'll get ya for dis!' And, well, I wasn't about ta..." Pocket continued, having leapt from her bed to act out the entire scene. Several of the newsgirls who were already awake (Prob'ly woke dem up jus' ta tell dis stupid story, Shadow guessed bitterly) watched her from their bunks.

Just as Pocket was drawing near the climax of her tale, Shadow found that she couldn't take it any longer. She hurled her pillow (a thing so lumpy, rough, and uncomfortable that it resembled a rock more than anything else) down at Pocket, hitting the girl directly in the head and knocking the surprised newsgirl to the floor. "Can it!" she shouted in extreme annoyance.

"Can it what?" Pocket, who had been initally caught off guard by he pillow but immediately leapt to her feet again, asked with the most innocent of grins plastered on her lips.

"Cane it carry a tune?" wondered Aussie.

The former pickpocket lifted up the pillow and, with a somber nature reminiscent of a college professor, pressed it to her ear for a minute. Then she shook her head sadly. "Nope."

"Can it turn cartwheels?" Cole asked.

Pocket placed the pillow on the floor and stared at it expectantly. "Uh-uh."

"Can it grow feet and hop on one of 'em and whistle da Star Spangled Bannah backwards while balancin' a stack of papes on da oddah foot and turnin' around eighteen and a sixteenth times countah-clockwise?" Tornado laughed.

Pocket again studied the resting pillow hopefully. "Nuh-uh. But I don't t'ink I could even do dat."

"Not a surprise. Aftah all, ya got as much brains as dat pillow," Shadow mumbled viciously, rolling her eyes and attempting in vain to gain a few minutes of sleep before Kloppman marched into the room to wake everyone with his shouts of 'Get up, get up! Papers are rolling!'

Can it fly?" suggested Cricket.

Pocket lifted up the pillow and studied it meticulously, turning it over several times and occasionally tossing it up a few feet into the air. Then she broke into a bright grin as she screamed, "YES!" and flung the pillow at Tornado, hitting the girl squarely in the face.

Tornado shrieked in shock (that combined with Pocket's shout served to wake all of the previously slumbering newsgirls, some of whom, like Shadow, were less than thrilled with the method of awakening; several hurled their own pillows at the two girls) and swiped Pocket with her pillow, a declaration of pillow war between them. They swatted each other cheerfully and raced giggling around the room for at least another five minutes before Kloppman appeared at the doorway with an incredulous statement suffused over his face.

"What in the almighty is going on in here?" he wanted to know, folding his arms over his chest and reminding Shadow of an old maid who didn't tolerate such unbecoming actions.

No one in the room spoke up, even those who hadn't been pleased with the wake-up call. Shadow flipped over in her bunk and prayed for a few minutes of extra sleep (otherwise she was certain she'd be the head off of anyone who refused to buy a paper that morning). Pocket and Tornado shared a half-guilty, half-mischievous look before returning their gaze to an unamused Kloppman.

"Well, t'ink of it dis way," the ex-pickpocket piped up enthusiastically. "Ya don't gotta drag us outta bed now like ya gotta do wid da boys."

Kloppman sighed heavily, throwing his hands up as if in defeat. "Well, ya all gotta get up now, presses are rollin'!" he shouted as he exited the girls' room and his footsteps echoed down the hallway, where he was most likely going to throw the boys out of bed.

By this time, Shadow had given up her futile efforts and slid to her feet. She offered only Ivy, who- lying in the bunk below Shadow's- was rubbing the last bits of sleep out of her eyes, a small smile before heading into the washroom to brush her teeth (something the boys hardly ever did, even though they fervently insisted on shaving each morning). As if dey had anyt'ing ta shave, Shadow remarked to herself as she studied her reflection in the washroom's broken mirror. She saw her heart-shaped face, her slightly pointed ears which she couldn't stand and did her best to conceal with her dark tresses whenever possible, and her chocolate brown eyes. She knew that she didn't quite look like the other girls, having received her naturally dark skin (though not nearly as dark as Tornado's beautiful complexion) from her Mexican parents. Save Tornado, Boots, Painter, Drummer, and Violet, she knew that she stuck out of the group of newsies- who were prominently white- like a sore thumb.

Shit, I'd rather blend in wid even da plainest of people den stick out like dis, she commented to herself. People don't remembah ya, or even notice ya, dat way.

Sometimes all Shadow longed for was simply to slip away into the darkness forever.

"Extra, Extra! Fightin' in da Philippines! Hundreds of lives lost in battle! Blood and carnage!" Shadow called to the denizen of the city who were passing by, her voice somewhat listless despite the dramatic article gracing the front page of the World. This was one of the few days when she had no need to create an improved headline. People seemed genuinely interested in the affairs of the land thousands of miles away. However, Shadow bore no curiosity or sadness concerning those fighting in Philippines.

Who really gives a damn wheddah or not a buncha people die way ovah deah? I don't know 'em, don't care about 'em, why should anybody else? The fact was, however, (although Shadow would never admit this to herself) that she realized if she felt sorry for these people, there would be other corpses to consider.

"I'd like a newspaper," an older evidently middle class woman stepped up to the newsgirl and thankfully interrupted Shadow's train of thought.

"Oh, right," she said, surprised at her sudden appearance, and fumbled to give the woman a paper. In her efforts, she accidentally dropped her entire stack of fifty papers onto the grimy sidewalk. Muttering very obscene phrases and moving swiftly so that her papers would not be ruined by those who would fecklessly stomp over the print on their way to huge offices or tiny sewing shops or a matinee performance on Broadway, Shadow collected the papers. To her vast surprised, the woman, a tall female with nondescript blue eyes and luxurious brown hair, assisted her in the task. She glanced up at the woman for a split second in total shock. Why da hell is she helpin' me? she pondered as she turned away in fear that the woman could catch the bewildered gleam in her eyes.

"T'anks, ma'am-" Shadow was mumbling, uncertain as to how to express her gratitude, when she caught sight of someone standing across the street.

He wasn't someone whom she would have noticed under usual circumstances. His dark blonde hair was thinning with air, and streaks of silver were apparent even from a distance. His clothing was nothing to speak of. Most likely thousands of other men owned a suit identical to the one he donned, gray and obviously kept spotless despite the mediocre quality and style. He wasn't very handsome, although he might have been years ago before wrinkles had stretched out across his face and a cold frown implanted itself firmly on his lips. What caught Shadow's attention were his eyes, icy blue which made her shiver despite the intense heat and humidity. There was something about them that made her uneasy, something that awoke a memory which had been formerly tucked safely away in the back of her mind. These eyes were not the sort one would be very comfortable looking into.

And at that moment, the man's eyes were focused directly on Shadow.

An animal instinct ordered her feet to run. Before she could stop herself, she shoved a paper into the woman's hands and muttered, "On da house." With that, she grabbed the collect stack and bolted away like a deer on the run from a dangerous hunter. She didn't waste time in stopping to even glance over her shoulder, but she knew all the same that the man had followed her. Her heart was pounding wildly now (she wondered if a select few in New Hampshire could hear it), and simply not as a result of her pace. Frantically, she tore through the crowded sidewalks at top speed, pushing people out of the way if the need arose. She dodged across street, down alleys, and around corners to escape.

What Shadow found odd was the man's silence. She vaguely recalled Jack relating a story of when Snyder had chased him, David, and Les one day just before the strike occurred. Of course this could have been vast embellishment, but Jack had said that he called directions out to Dave and Les, while Snyder shouted threats after them. This was utterly different. Neither the predator nor the prey made any sound as they sprinted through the city.

With panicked eyes, Shadow looked for any possible place to hide. It seemed as though no matter what, the man was unwilling to lose her.

Shit, a city as big as dis and a goil can't find a decent place ta hide from a psycho!

Then she caught sight of her only chance. She would have to run like the wind and even then there was the possibility of becoming seriously injured or even killed, but that seemed a thousand times better than getting cornered by some creep who most likely had rape on his mind and evil in his heart. Not even taking the time to draw a deep breath for courage, Shadow dashed into the middle of the street, directly in the path of a speeding carriage. She barely missed getting trampled by massive horses (how Sabrina could ever ride on of those, Shadow hadn't the faintest idea) and, without stopping to consider how lucky she was to have made it across safely, she bolted into one of the sole alleys to be darkened at this time of day. She backed into a corner and easily blended into the other dancing shadows.

The man trailing her had taken one step into the street in an attempt to follow the girl, but by then it was too late. He would have been instantly crushed by the carriage if he had tried to continue, his skull smashed into jagged pieces on the road and his body flattened beyond recognition. And by the time the carriage had passed, he found that the girl was nowhere to be seen. She could have gone a dozen ways and disappeared into the crowd in an instant, absolutely impossible to follow.

But that made no difference to the man. He knew that his time would come, and it that time was approaching rapidly. Besides, he had seen what the girl had been clutching in her arms- newspapers. He knew of someone who would be very able, and even more willing, to assist him in his search. With a swift turn on his heel, Detective Sarmons strolled off, whistling a pleasant tune.

It was at least half an hour before Shadow decided that it was safe to venture out of the darkened corner of the alley and into the summer sunlight again. Actually, she would have been perfectly content to stand in the darkness for the rest of the day, but knew that that was certainly not going to sell any papers, and she didn't have a burning desire to gulp down twenty papers that evening. So she took small, cautious steps towards the mouth of the alley, where she could see dozens of people passing by without having any idea that there was a psycho stalker walking among them.

I guess I could say dey don't know I'm walkin' wid dem, she reminded herself. Even da newsies don't know. Dey don't know anyt'ing about me, how I killed dat guy, why I was even deah dat night.

Sure, the majority of the newsies had pasts they'd love to forget. Pocket had been a pickpocket for years; Jack's father had been an abusive drunk and a thief, slipping silently into homes and taking whatever he could to sell for a profit; Violet's parents had abandoned her before she had turned five; and, prior to joining the newsies, Specs had been a member of a rather violent street gang. But dat ain't not'ing compared ta what I done....

Suddenly a piercing crash caused Shadow's heart to leap against her rib cage. She whirled around to find an alley cat stalking around several trash cans which it had just turned over. Its fur had once been the color of fresh cream, but appeared to be a sickly shade of tan now as a result of layers of dust, dirt, and grime. It had wide, blue eyes which, Shadow supposed, had seen too much too often, although it was evident from the bones pressing against the walls of its stomach, it didn't eat nearly as frequently. She found herself fascinated with the feline and took a tiny step towards the animal, whose eyes were now locked on the newsgirl. It retreated slightly, wondered whether or not to pounce, and bore its claws just in case. But Shadow made no movement, hoping that she wouldn't scare the cat in any way; she could wait patiently until it was ready to accept her. Several minutes later, it appeared as though she was making some progress as its claws retracted.

"Deah ya are!" a slightly annoyed voice boomed (or what appeared to be booming in contrast to the former silence of the alley), causing the cat to yowl in fright before leaping back into the shadows and disappearing through an unnoticeable hole in a wall.

Certain that the voice came from her assailant, Shadow whirled around, her eyes as suspicious as the cat's had been a moment before and ready to attack if necessary, screaming, "GET DA HELL AWAY FROM ME!"

Specs blinked in confusion. "What'd I do?"

Shadow sighed heavily, half-relieved and half-embarrassed. She adopted her usual cool, mysterious manner with even more speed than she had used when racing away from the detective. "Not'ing, I'm jus' a liddle on edge, is dat such a huge problem for ya?"

"Yeah, if ya're gonna yell at me, it is."

"Who's yellin' at ya? I'se perfectly calm now. Practic'lly passive as it were." She spat out the words with a detectable, deliberate venom.

"Shoah ya are," he muttered facetiously.

"I am!"

"Uh-huh. You'se about as cool and collected as a mob scene."

"Would ya lay off?!" she demanded harshly and pushed passed him, finally stepping into the sunlight. She decided she needed to cool her nerves and extracted a poor excuse for a cigarette out of her pocket, lighting it with expert ease. Most of the newsies had started smoking at a young age and Shadow was no exception. She took a long drag, then leaned against a building with her arms crossed in the fashion of hoodlums and rebels. "So, do ya always hang out in alleys or is dis just a special occasion?"

Specs had come up beside her with his own cigarette in hand. "Yeah, dis is how I get in touch wid my innah self. Some real deep t'inkin' been done heah."

"A regular philosophah."

"Dat's right. Actu'lly, I was lookin' for yaself."

She turned to him with unveiled surprise. "Me?"

"No, da Queen of England. Yes, you." He regarded her calmly, as though this kind of situation occurred daily, and took a puff before continuing, "See, I was workin' da Forty-Ninth Street crowd when all of da sudden, dis goil runs right by me like a bat outta hell, and right behind her is dis guy. And I was kinda worried about dis goil, so I took off aftah dem two. Howevah, da goil got away and da guy jus' took off; so I'se scoutin' da area for at least half an hour. Den I t'ought: dark, dank alley? Yep, dat's wheah Shadow'd hang out."

"So what am I supposed ta do, t'ank ya or somet'ing?" she asked stonily, tossing her cigarette away and a moment later wishing she hadn't.

Specs narrowed his eyes slightly and adopted a defensive tone. "Hey, I was tryin' ta help ya."

For a moment, the only sound at the emitted from the mouth of the alley was the faint breathing of the two newsies. "I can take care of myself," she finally replied viciously, glaring as though he had insulted her beyond belief, and then marched off into the crowd. Specs watched her leave with a stony statement, though a second later he had lost her in the masses.

The thick, heady scent of smoke clung almost protectively to her scant clothing, and she aimlessly wished that the cigarette had been able to warm her body and what was left of her spirit- if there was anything left at all. Sometimes, when she lay awake in the dark and stared out into the shadows, she wondered what her inner self looked like; not her entrails and spleen and heart- well, perhaps her heart- but her soul. There were certain kinds of torture which didn't simply rip apart your skin or burn your flesh so that you could smell yourself cooking or bring an exodus of hot, pained tears. There were kinds of torture that reduced tears, reduced you. Lucia felt as empty as a moonless, starless sky the color of a smudge on a newspaper.

"Get up!" Lou shouted, his voice rough and snakelike and made Lucia's stomach turn every time she heard it. He was a strong man, although his slightly obese appearance made most people think otherwise. He kicked her leg, and the girl lifted her head up from where she had been resting on the staircase.

"Whadda ya want?" she asked. Her eyes were two pieces of coal, embers that had been burned out long ago.

"You got a job. With some important big shot. Some politician out at his summer house."

She rolled her eyes and recalled that she hadn't really slept in weeks. "Get one of da oddah goils ta do it. I ain't goin' out tahnight." She gazed around the room. Tacky, worn furniture that always carried a certain, sickening stench filled the room. Women who weren't exactly attractive though attempted to appear as such with the aid of much makeup and who were all clad in little more than underwear, sat talking or strolled around with burning cigarettes in their hands. "Get Gracie, she'd be willin' ta go."

With ferocious speed, Lou seized Lucia's arm and yanked the girl savagely to his face. She could smell alcohol and cheap cigars on his breath, and stared at his rotting yellow teeth and his bloodshot eyes. "YOU'LL DO WHATEVER I TELL YOU TO DO!" he screamed, voice causing all the empty liquor bottles to quake. "AND IF THAT MEANS SLEEPING WITH EVERY DAMN GUY WHO EVER WALKED THE EARTH, THEN THAT'S WHAT YOU'RE GONNA DO!"

Lucia stared at the man detachedly, as though she hadn't heard a word he had said. A though nothing had happened at all. If Lou hadn't known her better or if he had been slightly more intoxicated, he would have imagined the girl had somehow turned into a shadow incapable of producing emotion.

"YOU GET ME?!" he barked, furious that his explosion hadn't seemed to make any impression on the girl.

She nodded without emotion. "I get ya."

With a swift movement, he tossed her back to the floor and glowered viciously. For a moment, Lucia wondered if he were going to attack her again. But then Lou spat into a corner and marched off, undoubtedly to find another bottle of scotch or someone else on whom he could take his anger out.

She slowly lifted herself up and did not allow the other girls to witness her pain. She winced silently, clenching her teeth so no noise would be emitted, as she marched down the staircase. Dumb of him ta do dat, really, she commented as she tried not to focus on the soreness but on the vast stupidity of Lou. I'm gonna get a bruise for shoah, and what guy wants ta sleep wid a goil who's covahed in black and blue?

"Why'd some big shot wanna hire you?" demanded one of the girls, a tall woman named Nina who was currently narrowing her hazel eyes at Lucia. "You ain't old enough to cross the street by yourself."

"Maybe he didn't want some old hag, like you'se."

Nina slammed her glass of vodka onto a nearby, rickety table which threatened to explode into thousands of tiny splinters. With blazing fire lighting her eyes, she strode over to Lucia and slapped her across the face, leaving a red handprint on the younger girl's countenance. "Never call me that again, you hear?! Never!"

Glancing at Nina's long red nails (which seemed as threatening as razor blades at that point in time) and her clenched fists, Lucia wondered if the woman were about to slash her throat. Then she gazed up into the older girl's eyes and caught sight of something hidden safely behind a veil of simple rage- sheer terror. Lucia was still young, but she realized that she couldn't do this forever. What would happen after she turned thirty...sixty? She had always supposed she would be dead by then, but who really knew? It would be back to living on the streets, begging for food, and sleeping with one eye opened in case anyone should approach her during the night.

She didn't say anything and backed away from Nina- who was really so much older than Lucia, in so much danger of being thrown onto the streets- with wide, petrified eyes. Lucia grabbed her purse and bolted through the front door and into the streets of Chicago, rushed passed the mirror hanging by the door so she couldn't see how her own eyes mirrored Nina's.

Lucia didn't particularly enjoy the taste of brandy, but she accepted the flask filled with the fiery liquid anyway when Senator Bainsworth offered it to her. She mumbled a swift, "T'anks," and took a short sip before he could make any remark as to how she had become familiar with such a drink during her short fourteen years. The liquid (if one could even call it that) burned her throat and she longed to spit out the rest onto the fine, Persian carpet. But, she gathered, the senator's wife might not be too thrilled about the appearance of such a stain when she and the rest of the senator's family journeyed here during the summer months.

What the girl didn't know was that the senator's wife knew perfectly well about her husband's activities. She knew her husband, the praised politician, used their summer home as practically a brothel. But she also knew better than to make such an accusation. Who would have believed her, anyway?

It'd make a nice headline for da papes, Lucia thought. Senatah caught in horrible scandal. Dat always attracts crowds. Of coise, da newsies don't exactly tell da truth about da articles, anyway, so what difference does it make what da headlines are?

He found it highly amusing that Lucia was staring with interest at his myriads of books lining the walls of the parlor. "See anything you enjoy?" he inquired, and the mocking undertone was not lost on the girl.

"Maybe," she answered impassively and took another sip. "Look, I really don't got al night, so if ya don't mind-"

"I'm paying; this will go just as I desire." Besides, the senator continued silently, you don't have anywhere to go to afterwards.

Lucia studied the man's intense eyes, which weren't too dissimilar from Lou's, really. There was something hiding behind them. Her heartbeat quickened slightly as she felt the panic set in. Somet'ing ain't right head. Who else has been wid dis senatah guy; he's obviously been wid prostitutes befoah. Nobody from Lou has gone ta him. Nobody's even mentioned him....

Her eyes unconsciously widened with horror, but thankfully the senator's back had been turned as he poured himself yet another glass of brandy. She caught sight of a pistol lying on a nearby coffee table as thought it were that evening's paper. Swiftly, Lucia attempted to gain control of herself Senator Bainsworth turned around again.

"Would you-" he began to ask, but the girl couldn't control herself any longer.

"What happened ta da oddah goils who were wid ya?" she demanded frantically. "What happened ta dem?"

She had expected the man to fly into a fit, to attack her and threaten her life. Instead, a slow smile spread across his lips and a laugh was emitted from his amused mouth. "Clever girl, aren't you? The others didn't realize what was happening to them until it was far too late. Of course, it's too late for you as well; but I see no point in lying to you now, when there's absolutely nothing for you to do about it." He paused for a moment, his features as calm and amiable as if he were giving a speech in front of the Elderly Nuns Retirement Home in hopes of gaining votes. "I'm going to have sex with you, and then I'm going to kill you."

"Ya...ya can't," she stammered stubbornly, clutching to that thought as if it were a life preserver and she were about to drown in a tumultuous ocean. "Lou, da oddah goils, dey'll realize I'm missin'. Dey'll get da bulls ta come out heah and-"

His highly entertained laughter interjected into her unsteady declaration. "Do you honestly believe that anyone would take their word over mine? Take your word over mine? Please continue my dear, you're the most amusing prostitute I've ever had the pleasure of knowing. And trust me, I've known more than a few in my time."

"Did ya kill dem, too?" she wanted to know. She tried to conceal the fear in her tone as she thought, Nobody cared when dey nevah showed up again. He made shoah ta choose people nobody'd care about. Gracie couldn't go, da oddah goils like her; he had ta choose me.

"Don't be foolish, naturally I killed them. I have my career, my image to think about. Now"- he placed his glass of brandy on the table-"be sensible and give in. There's nothing you can do anyway, and even if there were, no one would believe you. No one even cares about you, so if you don't turn up again, there will be no search parties, no huge funeral procession, no single tear shed in sadness. I, on the other hand-"

Without stopping to even consider her action, Lucia hurled her glass directly at his forehead, thankful that she had learned how to play stickball all those years ago in her native New York City. It hit its mark and shattered, shards of glass cutting his forehead. He shouted pained obscenities as he clutched his head, blood dripping onto his palms.

But she wasted no time in watching the senator in pain. She swiftly grabbed for the gun while he was distracted and raised the weapon, pointing at his head.

Bainsworth noticed her movement and mentally cursed himself for not foreseeing this. No matter, he thought calmly, the most distressing thought on his mind being the sharp pain of tiny pieces of glass cutting into his skin and not the gun he was staring down. She was a woman, and either did not have the conviction to actually shoot or such a poor marksman that she would miss her target by five feet.

"I told you to stop being so foolish," he chastised her as though he were her father. That concept made Lucia sick to her stomach and she clutched the gun tighter. "Put that thing down before you hurt yourself."

"Get da hell away from me or I'll shoot. Nevah come neah me again, or so help me God I'll blow your brains out," she swore in a solemn but terrified tone.

The senator glared at her, deeply upset with how the evening had progressed. "This has gone far enough," he stated and grasped a large shard of glass which was as sharp as any razor blade and glimmering in the candlelight. He took a slow step towards her, his pace mocking the girl's threat. "I suppose I'll have to put an end to this early, but-"

Lucia aimed the gun at the center of his face and closed her eyes tightly as she pulled the trigger.

Shadow awoke with the apparition of a single gunshot blasting in her ears, the memory of brandy on her mouth, the sight of a man falling to a Persian carpet behind her eyelids, and a scream caught in a spider's web of fear in her throat. She clutched her heart, which seemed to be pounding a hole through her skin, and gasped for breath.

She sat up straight in bed and breathed very deeply, hoping to calm herself before anyone noticed her frenzied state. She began wondering about her dream. She had only dreamed about that night a few times, and never had it been so vivid as that. It was as though she had relived those moments down to the very last detail. Gazing around the room, she found that the other newsgirls were fast asleep. Moonlight poured over the bunkroom floors.

She sighed with heavy relief and slowly leaned back against her pillow. But thoughts still clouded her head. She hadn't dreamed about that night in years; it was a memory safely tucked away in the back of her mind. Why were those memories- such strikingly graphic ones which, even after awakening, still caused her to visibly quake- making themselves apparent now?

Bet dat means not'ing. T'ings have jus' been weird lately, and dat's making my dreams crazy. It ain't not'ing, Shadow reassured herself (although deep down she never actually believed her lies) and leaned back against her pillow. She found herself unable to fall asleep for the rest of the night, and could only stare into the darkness which promised to enveloped her.

Others, who were far nearer than Shadow and the other newsies would have liked, were also still awake on that particular evening. Detective Sarmons strolled calmly through the streets of New York, the glow emitted from the gaslights being especially kind to his features. Every so often denizens of the city would pass him- a woman in drab garb on her way home from hours of work at a factory, a group of men who were near severe intoxication, two young boys racing home to be chastised by their mother, a well-dressed man returning to his mansion after a long day at his law firm, which his father and grandfather had owned before him- and each time the detective would cast a suspicious glance at them. One could never be too careful; who knew if a mass murderer or petty thief were under one's nose? But if he had noticed even the most obvious of villains on that evening, he would have ignored them until another time. Tonight, his pulse quickened at the thought that soon justice would be served.

He glanced down at the address written in careful script on a scrap of paper he had been carrying for an hour now. 45 34th Street. He stared up to find the exact number carved into a small, tarnished plaque gracing the building before him. It seemed to be a tiny establishment when compared with the monstrous buildings the detective had seen that afternoon, and far less well-kept. The bricks were slowly turning a dull shade of gray as a result of thick layers of dust and grim. One of the windowpanes had been shattered. Unlike some of the other buildings nearby, where residents had attempted to brighten the environment, no flowers grew from window boxes, no child's high-pitched laughter issued from the area. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a brown mouse scurrying into the building by means of a very obvious hole.

The detective entered without experiencing even the slightest discomfort at the unwelcoming manner of the building. He climbed up several creaky, darkened staircases before stepping in front of a severely plain door, tarnished brass numbers nailed to the wood. Apartment #21. He knocked, the noise shattering the former silence of the empty hallway.

Confident footsteps approached the door, which opened with a faint, high-pitched screech. An older man with gray hair and unamused eyes stood on the opposite side of the doorframe, his countenance solemn. He was clad in black clothing which was well-kept despite its poor nature. Staring at the detective, he inquired, "May I help you?" in a slightly scratchy voice which held the power to unnerve hundreds of children in the city.

"Mr. Snyder, I presume?" Sarmons asked.

"That's correct. And you are...?"

Without offering his hand, the detective replied, "Detective Joseph Sarmons of the Chicago police department. I was hoping you would be able to provide me with some assistance concerning a murder."

Snyder nodded complaisantly, though was somewhat uncertain of the situation. "Yes, of course. Won't you come in?"

Sarmons offered a small smile of gratitude, although the statement seemed completely out of place on his features. He stepped into the apartment, which was plain and shabby at best. The majority of the furniture appeared to have undergone years of misuse, and this fact was more than evident to even the most oblivious of observers. Tables were noticeably marked; the couch had once been a vivid vermillion, but had now turned a shade of dark, sickening pink and patches of clashing colors were scattered along the fabric; a thin layer of dust enveloped everything. The detective gazed around with mild, concealed disdain before returning his gaze to the former warden, who had closed the door with a soft click.

"What exactly can I help you with?" Snyder wanted to know, gesturing for Sarmons to sit.

"Several years ago," the detective began in a grace tome as he took a seat on the very edge of the worn couch while Snyder faced him on a wooden chair which seemed ready to fall apart under his weight, "a famed senator was murdered at his summer home- shot in the head. The killer alluded me for a period of time, but I have come to know the identity of this murderer. She is a young girl of roughly eighteen years of age, called Lucia Navar. She was born and reared in new York City before traveling to Chicago, where she later became a prostitute. After savagely killing Senator Bainsworth, she returned to New York under an alias I have yet to learn and went into hiding."

"I fail to see how I might assist you in this matter," the other man objected, confused.

A sinister grin, which looked far more at ease on his countenance than his previous smile, suffused over his lips. "Mr. Snyder, I was informed that you were the warden of the House of Refuge before you were unjustly stripped of your position as a result of that fanatical Teddy Roosevelt's interference."

"That's correct," he replied, a combination of bitterness at the memory and pride at the blandishment glimmering in his eyes.

"I also have reason to believe that you, better than anyone in the city, know the miscreants referred to as the newsies- particularly those residing in Manhattan."

Snyder made no remark, but his eyes automatically narrowed and his blood boiled at the thought of the Manhattan newsies. He recalled how he had been fired, and nearly thrown in jail merely because of the strict measures he had exercised at the Refuge. As if those worthless children deserved anything better! Thankfully, the mayor had stepped in to save Snyder from imprisonment, although he was not able to restore the former warden's position. "Wait a few years, and by then Roosevelt will either be forgotten or too busy to even consider us," the mayor had told Snyder who, by nature, was not a very patient man. He wanted power again. He wanted money. And he wanted to see the newsies suffer.

Witnessing Snyder's reaction, Sarmons continued, "Lucia has taken up selling newspapers for a living. I was hoping that you could aid me in finding her- and also to take justice against the newsies."

A slow, sly smile spread across the face of the former warden, and his blue eyes began to glimmer with unholy bliss and anticipation. "Detective Sarmons," Snyder replied as he offered his hand, "you have no idea how greatly it will please me to help you in any way possible."

Shadow crossed her arms over her chest and cast a withering glance at Specs, who was exchanging a paper in return for a penny with a middle-aged gentleman. "T'ank ya, sir, have a nice day," he said pleasantly to the man and grinned, glad that the day's headlines were attracting costumers, that he had currently sold thirty-nine papers after selling for a mere few hours, and that the air at last held the promise of relieving rain. Then out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of Shadow glaring viciously at him, and his good mood was shattered.

"Ya can stop lookin' at me like dat any time, ya know."

"It's da least of what ya desoive," she scoffed but turned her gaze to those passing by, knowing very well that she had better start shouting out headlines or she was going to suffer through an ink-induced stomach ache that evening.

"Me?!" he exclaimed in shock. "I didn't volunteer ta baby-sit ya tahday."

"Maybe not, but it's your own fault dat you'se heah."

She recalled how that morning, when she woke up with dark circles under her eyes, she had practically been accosted by Violet and Jack, with Specs wordlessly standing nearby. She crawled out of bed and stared at them with bewilderment and wariness. "What is it?" she ahd asked shortly and, pushing a hand through her tresses, strolled into the washroom.

The two leaders of the Manhattan newsies shared a swift look, wondering how to bring up this subject so that Shadow wouldn't explode in fury, but the possibility of her anger seemed likely to occur in whatever scenario they imagined. "Um, see, Shadow," Violet began after a second of Jack's silent prodding, "Specs told us something that got us kinda worried yesterday."

"Yeah, he said you'se was followed by dis guy yestahday, and dat it didn't jus' look like some crazy guy off of da streets," Jack continued to Shadow, who had turned from them to face the mirror.

"And so-" Violet went on with forced calm when Shadow, clutching a white towel which nearly matched her knuckled by this point, whirled around and marched over to stand nearly face-to-face with Specs. Her eyes flashed furiously as she shouted, "I can't believe ya told dem! I said I can take care of myself!"

"I was worried about ya!" Specs screamed in return. "Dat guy coulda done anyt'ing ta ya, and who knows if he's still out deah tahday!"

"He couldn't have done anyt'ing dat-" she was shrieking in response when her better judgment caught up with her anger. She stopped mid-sentence, knowing that it would be unwise to continue that thought- even worse to convey those memories to the others. So she merely retreated one small step from Specs and, though still glowering viciously, became a statue.

Jack looked from Shadow to Specs to Violet as silence consumed the room. Several newsies had gathered, watching the spectacle uneasily. He turned to the others and said very simply, in a manner that reminded many of Spot Conlon, "You'se guys get goin'. We'll be along latah."

"I'll stay," spoke up Ivy in her usual hushed voice, surprising the others who were moving to the door, glad to be free from the thickening tension in the room. She looked to Shadow, concern and sympathy illuminating her timid eyes.

Violet nodded agreeably, knowing that perhaps Shadow's quiet companion could talk some sense into the angered newsgirl. "Shadow, we're all worried about you. Who knows what this creep could do to you? We figure there's safety in numbers, so we thought that maybe somebody could go sell with you today."

Shadow glared at Violet and Jack, scowling, "I said, I can take care of myself. I don't need somebody ta watch ovah me."

"Please, Shadow," Ivy besought her friend, eyes wide and hopeful. "We just don't want to see you get hurt."

She could not maintain her statement of tenacious independence under Ivy's stare, and folded her arms over her chest as a gesture of defeat. "Fine," she scoffed bitterly, her voice barely audible, "but not for an eternity or not'ing, all right? 'Cause not'ings gonna happen tahday, and even if it does-"she raised her eyes, dogged and fierce, to meet Specs' own-"I am perfectly capable of takin' care of myself." With that, she had turned on her heel and marched out of the washroom, her strong footsteps echoing loudly on the wooden floor.

Now she found herself partnered with Specs- Specs of all people!- on that humid afternoon, when a storm gathering around the city was preparing to burst forth in all its tumultuous glory.

"I told dem 'cause I..." he began in a short tone, but then trailed off in disdain and frustration. "Ya know, I don't even know why we'se havin' dis argument."

"I don't even know why I'm talkin' ta you," Shadow retorted.

"Den don't!"

"I won't!"

"Fine!"

"FINE!"

Several people who were passing by overheard their disagreement, and cast them bewildered, scornful stares. Shadow glared fiercely at a woman of middle age, dressed in finery, who whispered to her companion, "Well, what can you expect from these newsies? I send Frederick out to purchase the paper so I won't have to deal with..." her voice was lost amongst the noise as she and the other woman (who was clad in equally fine attire and nodding her agreement) disappeared into the crowded sidewalk.

Shadow and Specs continued to sell their papers in silence, though cast each other the occasional glance of venom every several minutes. "Group of pickpockets run wild in Central Pawk!" Specs shouted at the top of his lungs and waved a newspaper around in hopes of attracting the attention of wealthy couples strolling by. "Police are astounded!"

"Politician connected wid questionable death! Four corpses found scalped!" the girl bellowed, attempting to drown out her partner's cries. She realized that her so-called headline barely resembled the actual editorial, which was actually about the natural death of a congressman's ancient basset hound. However, she felt the fierce need to compete with the newsboy. Maybe if I sell more papes den he does, he'll cheese it and I can sell on my own again, she thought slyly.

"THIEVERY AT ALL TIME HIGH! NO ONE IS SAFE!" Specs shouted, unable to conceal the anger in his voice.

"SUSPECTED KILLER IN CONGRESS!"

As the two were verbally and indirectly fighting, they didn't notice the two pairs of familiar, hostile eyes which were currently studying the newsies' features with intense precision.

"That's the girl," Detective Sarmons, his eyes cold and harsh, murmured in a rather bestial growl. "Lucia Navar. Are you familiar with her?"

Snyder stared at her for a moment and probed his memory for anyone in the Refuge who had matched her description. Slowly, he shook his head, a gesture which greatly frustrated the detective. "No, she's never been to the Refuge. But I recognize the boy beside her...." He recalled with perfect clarity the day he had trekked to the Manhattan Newsboys' (the title being deeply deceiving, as many female newsies also resided there) Lodging House in search of Francis Sullivan. His eyes narrowed as he gazed upon the familiar boy, the one who had remarked, "Dat's an unusual name for dese parts." The worthless good-for-nothing.

"Who is it?" Sarmons demanded impatiently, eyes flashing wildly.

"I don't know his exact name," he admitted calmly, still studying Specs, "but he is a newsboy from the Manhattan Lodging House and had been involved in the strike. This Lucia Navar evidently stays there as well. We will have no trouble finding her."

The detective nodded as a wicked grin grew across his features, and he could not control the diabolic laughter which emitted from his twisted mouth- laughter which sent a slight shiver traveling down even Snyder's spine.

The gas lights were just beginning to glow softly, fireflies darting around them in an ancient dance, as Specs and Shadow made their way back to the lodging house in silence. They hadn't spoken for hours, since their rather loud argument, and neither newsie seemed willing nor able to put an end to the quiet tension gathered between them.

Specs kicked an empty bottle into the gutter, and it smashed into a hundred pieces against the road. The sharp discord caused the stomach of his companion, who had been eying those passing by suspiciously, to leap into her throat. It was too familiar a noise for any sort of comfort.

"Would ya mind not doin' dat?" she demanded harshly, casting him a venomous stare.

Behind his glasses he rolled his eyes in annoyance. "Sorry, didn't know a little t'ing like dat could upset da all-mighty Shadow," he answered, sarcasm dripping from his tongue.

Memories of a glass of brandy smashing against a man's skull revived themselves in her mind. She shivered visibly despite the heat and Specs took notice of this. He felt a pang of guilt as he wondered what could have made the girl act so anxious- not her commonly cool self at all- but had no idea how to apologize for his facetious remark. Instead, the two continued to travel the endless sidewalks in silence.

They arrived at the lodging house, greeted by Kloppman who was seated behind his desk and flipping through the pages of the World's evening edition. He looked up when the two marched in, identically irritated expressions decorating their faces. The older man raised an eyebrow at the two, though didn't feel the need to inquire about their foul moods; the disagreement which had taken place that morning had been as discreet as a fog horn. So he merely nodded at the two and commented, "You're two of the last ones here tonight. Looks like rain, so if you're going out, don't make it too late."

Shadow and Specs each mumbled a 'yeah' and tramped wordlessly up the rickety staircase. They both entered the girls' bunkroom where the action seemed to be taking place on that particular evening, and found the majority of the newsies chattering loudly or playing in a considerable game of black jack (initiated by Racetrack, who was currently the holder of a significantly large pile of coins. Painter was chastising Les for not standing still while she attempted to sketch him. Snipeshooter had taken Race's cigar again, although the latter had yet to notice this fact. Jack was lamenting about a disagreement he had had with Sarah just that afternoon concerning something she had cooked (or at least, attempted to cook; the culinary cats were not the girl's forte). Specs move to easily fall into a conversation with Dutchy and Snoddy concerning where was the best place to meet the best girls.

The dark-haired newsgirl surveyed the scene in scorn. Tahday, of all days, every newsie in New Yawk had ta meet in heah, she moaned to herself as she marched to her bunk, climbing up onto her bed. It seemed as though she would never had even the shortest moment of peace in this lodging house.

She extracted a tattered, leather-bound notebook (one which had been tossed into the garbage by a young, spoiled boy of wealthy descent and which she had swiftly claimed for her own) from under her pillow. The yellowing pages smelled faintly musty after years of misuse and were filled with lines of her flowing, careful script. Some pages were marked with her own attempts at poetry (I ain't Poe or not'ing, she admitted frankly to herself) while others were simply her thoughts jotted down. The mere action of holding a pen in her hand calmed her and scribbling away seemed to put everything into perspective.

However, it was more than a little difficult to concentrate on anything that evening with Racetrack's cheers of victory, Painter's complaints to Les, and the general roar of chatter. Finally Shadow slammed her book shut and jumped from her bed in severe irritation. Dat's it, I don't care what Kloppman says, I'm outta heah, she remarked to herself, eyes blazing as she strode towards the door. She was about four steps away when Violet practically pounced directly in her path.

"What is it?" Shadow, not willing to withstand a thousand questions, inquired directly.

"Just making sure that this afternoon went all right. I know you weren't exactly thrilled with the idea, and that you came back alive, so obviously nothing serious happened, but I just wanted to make sure that you were okay," the leader of the newsgirls answered swiftly, and the note of concern in her voice was lost on Shadow. "That guy didn't try anything again, did he?"

She pushed a lock of hair behind her ear and shook her head. "No." That wasn't entirely the truth; when she hadn't been so involved in being upset with Specs, Shadow had felt as though someone in the crowd had been watching her...waiting like a tiger prepare to pounce when the moment was precisely right.

"That's good," Violet said, relieved. "I guess it was just some deranged guy, not somebody specifically out for you. So-"

Just then, a clamor from downstairs invaded their conversation. Kloppman was arguing with someone- several someones in fact- who seemed insistent on entering the lodging house.

"If you'll just wait here," the elderly man was saying loudly, as though giving a warning to any newsie who might have been listening, "I'm sure I can help you."

Jack and Violet darted from the room for a moment to investigate the situation. The other newsies had halted their conversations to cast nervous, confused glanced at each other. Shadow stood with her eyes wide as a cold, sickened feeling slowly spread throughout her body like a cancer.

It seemed to be an eternity before the two leaders of the Manhattan newsies reappeared with corresponding fearful expressions. "It's da bulls," Jack informed the other newsies in a grave tone. "Dey're lookin' for a moiderah; dey t'ink it's one of us, and dat we been hidin' dis killah. We gotta get outta heah, fast."

Shadow felt the floor quake beneath her. Her eyes widened in genuine terror and her dark skin paled so that she was left with a sickly white complexion. Her heart pounded desperately against her chest, as though it wished to burst free from its resting place. She longed to throw up, to scream, to break down in tears right then and there.

Dis can't be happenin', dis can't be real, she tried to reassure herself, but came to no avail. This was very real and she was in mortal danger.

Specs caught sight of the girl's reaction and suddenly everything- Shadow's suspicious nature, her determination to hide her past from the others, and how she had behaved during every moment he had known her- made sense. He dashed over to the door just as the sound of many footsteps beginning to march up the staircase, accompanied by Kloppman's fervent protests, wafted ominously into the room. Turning to Shadow with a grave statement, he whispered only one solemn word: "Run."

She gulped down hard and nodded at the newsboy, her usually collected eyes absolutely panicked. Without a word, she bolted to the window and scrambled frantically down the fire escape, and was a safe four blocks away by the time the police burst into the bunkroom and began to capture every newsie in sight.

The clattering of a tin cup being swept against the iron bars stretched across the window irritated Specs to no end. It was far easier to address his emotions at the inanimate object that Pie Eater was absently playing with than to deal with them directly. With dark eyes framed behind the slightly dusty lenses, he growled, "Can it, Pie Eater."

"Can it-" Pocket automatically piped up before realizing that the joke wouldn't be nearly so amusing as it had been the prior day. Had it honestly only been one day ago?

Specs leaned back in his severely uncomfortable bed (if one could even refer to the piece fo wood covered by a paper-thin mattress as a bed), his hands resting behind his head and his eyes locked at the bunk above him. He knew that Dutchy was currently residing on the bed above his, but his mind traveled to other times long ago- or seemingly long ago; the events in actuality had only taken place several years earlier- when he had first been thrown into the rats' nest they had the nerve to call the Refuge and when another boy had occupied that upper bunk. In reality, what kind of refuge was it? The so-called sanctuary served only to be a place for further abuse and torment. Like most newsies, Specs did not originate from a kindly, vastly wealthy family who vacationed in Newport and owned scores of factories. He had never known his mother, and his father had barely been around. Sometimes Specs, referred to as Michael in his youth, used to wonder if his father even realized he had a son. Of course, the occasions when his father did notice him weren't exactly particularly fond memories for the newsboy. He recalled a time when his father arrived home after a long night of hard liquor and smashed the boy's initial pair of glasses into thousands of pieces, most of which a young Specs proceeded to accidentally step on in his near blindness. After years of living in near isolation, he had been relieved to join a street gang who would feel no compunction for beating up a small boy for a few pennies, nor did his fellow members feel the need to rescue him from the Refuge after Specs had been caught by Snyder while swiping a pocket watch from a fine jewelry store.

The sound of a shoe slamming into the sole, locked door leading from the room interrupted Specs' ponderings. He gazed up to see that Racetrack had kicked the door out of impatience. "When are we gettin' da hell outta heah?" he demanded ferociously of anyone who was willing to answer.

"They have to let us out soon," Violet answered, hoping to pacify the boy.

"How do ya know dat?" Snitch inquired hopefully.

Jack, who was currently involved in a poker game with Mush, shrugged coolly and drew another card, replying without glancing up from his hand or changing his stony statement in the slightest. "T'ink about it; dey caught ev'ry one of us Manhattan newsies. Dey say dey can stick us in heah 'till damn doomsday if dey wanna, on account of we was 'harborin' a dangerous criminal'. But da t'ing is dat Pulitzer ain't gonna stand for ev'ry one of us bein' t'rown in heah for even a day. It'd hoit his profits, and he'd raddah help us out den lose any more money den he has ta on account of us."

The words 'harboring a dangerous criminal', spoken both by Jack and the detective who had informed them of the reason for their imprisonment, echoed in Specs' mind, drowning out the dull roar of the other newsies. He had always known Shadow to be secretive and suspicious, but a murderer? A prostitute? It was unbelievable, it had to be a mistake.

"So how long do ya t'ink we'll be in heah for?" Crutchy asked.

"I dunno, a couple of days at da most. Full house, kings ovah sevens; read 'em and weep." Jack grinned gleefully as he slapped his cards onto the floor which hadn't been dusted in years while Mush frowned in disappointment.

The solemn statement gracing Specs' face did not improve with the prediction. He frowned and gazed around at the cramped, unkempt room which was filled with the Manhattan newsies, all attemptin to find activities with which they could occupy their time. Though it was night and ominous black clouds filled the sky, Specs recalled from years ago that no matter what time of day it was, no matter what weather, it always seemed dark and cold in the Refuge. He vaguely wondered if this was what Shadow was going to be seeing for the rest of her life- or maybe her sentence would be much worse.

That is, if she was caught. And Specs gathered that Shadow was the type of girl who was more than able to slip into the crowds and disappear without a trace if she so chose.

"So do you think she did it?" Cricket loudly inquired with a concerned curiosity as she eyed her fellow newsies. "Shadow, I mean."

The room, which had been buzzing with activity and chatter, fell to a hush. The newsies cast each other worried, hopeless glances as they pondered about Shadow and her mysterious past. No one dared to speak for several minutes, but then, out of a far corner of the room, Ivy murmured, "She couldn't do something like that. I'm sure she didn't want to...if she did it at all."

"And jus' cause dey say she did somet'ing don't mean she actu'lly did it," Racetack added confidently, nodding to Jack. "Snydah said ya was a dangah ta society and, well, da only threat ya pose ta us is when ya won't shut up about da great night ya had wid Sarah." He grinned mischievously but before Jack was able to hurl any available object at Race's head, the boy went on, "And Pocket, we all t'ought ya had rejoined da pickpockets, but dat wasn't true. Dis doesn't have ta be, eiddah."

Nobody actu'lly uses woids like moidah and killah and whore, Specs remarked thoughtfully to himself. Maybe it's jus' 'cause we t'ink dat if we use dose woids, it's true, she is a killah. It's safah jus' ta refer ta t'ings as 'dat' and 'it'.

Although other newsies agreed wholeheartedly with Race's and Ivy's statements, Specs wasn't entirely certain. A painful worry was knotting in his stomach, warning him that Shadow was in for far more than she or any of the other newsies realized.

On any other occasion, Shadow would have been thoroughly opposed to spending the night in a dank alley as the rain poured down mercilessly, as it was threatening to do now. She would have found some safe doorway to huddle up in, some unlocked church or store to hide in until just before daybreak when she could slip back into the streets without anyone noticing or caring. She would have grumbled and sworn at the sky for the mere possibility of such weather.

However, on that night she was thankful for the approaching rain.

It sounded very cleansing, as though the water could just wash everything away and make life tolerable for once. As though she could simply melt away and be carried out to the ocean where she would drift peacefully for the rest of eternity.

That would have been a lovely thing to do then. She was very tired of running, of hiding, of being terrified of everyone and everything. All she wanted to do at that moment in time was to not have to do anything anymore- to become a real shadow and vanish without a trace.

She halted on the sidewalk for a moment, wondering if perhaps the God she didn't exactly believe in was going to listen to her pleas for once and allow everything to end in that moment. But, as she had suspected all along, she was still Shadow, standing frozen on the sidewalk, which was filled with people rushing to take cover from the impending rainfall.

Shit was all she permitted herself to think as she began to stalk the streets yet again.

Her hands shoved into her pockets and her back hunched slightly (as though she had terrible posture which a matronly aunt would constantly berate her for), she strode quickly down the sidewalk. She had no idea where she was even headed. But moving seemed like a much better idea than resting and allowing thoughts to fester, so she left her feet guide her anywhere they pleased. Occasionally she turned corners, crossed streets, or even whirled around and doubled-back for absolutely no reason at all. Those actions took her mind off of far more pressing matters for a few blessed moments.

The sky was completely enveloped in a thick blanket of coal black coals, which threatened to burst open with oceans of rainwater at any moment. Every so often, the distant, prophetic rumble of thunder echoed throughout the city and sent a shiver racing through Shadow's bones.

As she marched by the sparklingly clean window of a seamstress' store, she caught her reflection in the glass. She stopped short and turned slowly, almost unwillingly, to face herself. She studied the same skin- which had seemed to pale considerably since that morning- the same ebony hair, the same slightly pointed ears, the same eyes- which appeared frantic even then-, the same body she had known for years. Pressing her hand to the windowpane as if hoping for some form of warm, comforting contact but receiving none, she wished that she could magically depart from the flesh and bone and be lost among the clouds.

Scowling bitterly, Shadow turned away swiftly before any more thoughts of the like raced across her mind and she rushed down the sidewalk. A warm, tumultuous wind soared playfully around the streets, tugging at her hair and clothing. Her frown deepened ever more as she pushed her tresses out of her face and crossed her arms tightly over her chest, wondering what her options were now.

Maybe I could head ta Harlem or Brooklyn, she suggested hopefully. Aftah all, Pocket went deah ta get Spot ta help her aftah da pickpocket incident. Why can't I do da same? Then a realistically resentful voice, scorn dripping like vile honey, replied, 'Cause ya ain't Pocket. She was jus' involved wid a buncha pickpockets, like hundreds of oddah kids are and have been. Da oddah newsies have pasts like dat; dey'd undahstand dat. I, on da oddah hand, don't got a shot at sympathy. No, it's best ta jus' keep goin' alone. dat's what's always woiked befoah.

Before she had the opportunity to ponder her last statement, she caught sight of a young policeman scouring the streets. He appeared to be as enthusiastic to be still outdoors as a snowball would be in July, and most likely wouldn't take kindly to any fugitive/murderer he discovered. Wondering if he was actually searching for her, shadow leapt into a nearby alley and waited until the cop was a safe six blocks away before she took the tiniest of steps onto the sidewalk again.

Is dis gonna be it? Shadow demanded of herself as she stared at the tiny, retreating figure of the officer, which was growing somehow blurrier by the minute. Am I jus' gonna be runnin' and hidin' and prayin' I don't get caught for my entire life, wid nobody else?

The wind seemed to blow even stronger as the first, minuscule drops of rain fell gleefully from the sky and splashed onto the city streets. Nobody else...deah ain't nevah been anybody else. Even da newsies, even Specs don't want me around anymore. Dey all t'ink I'm jus' a killah and a whore. Why else would Specs have told me ta run?

Vaguely wondering why the streets were suddenly so blurred, Shadow placed her palms at her forehead and dug her long fingernails into her scalp. It was somehow relieving to feel the physical pain which matched her emotional torment. No, ya don't need dem, ya don't need anybody, a faint but tenacious voice declared. Ya been gettin' along fine already, and people jus' end up hurtin' ya anyways. Ya don't need dem!

Unfortunately, there's a limit as to how much one can lie to oneself, even in the most fire of situations. Shadow crumbled into the gutter, tears which had been collecting for seemingly an eternity at last flowing freely from her eyes and pouring down her cheeks. Why me?! What did I evah do ta desoive dis?! Why does everybody want ta end up hurtin' me?! She felt as though she would drown in the pouring rain and the exodus of her own tears and gasped for breath, for something far more essential than simply air, as she answered herself, It's because of you! It's because everybody t'ink ya're a killah and a whore, which is what ya are.

A familiar voice echoed in her mind, invading her senses like an icy gust of unkind wind. "No one even cares about you, so if you don't turn up again, there will be no search parties, no huge funeral procession, no single tear shed in sadness." He had been right all along.

An ear-piercing crack of thunder shattered the air as a bolt of lightning forked through and illuminated the sky. Rain pelted down unkindly, hitting Shadow without mercy. She barely recognized the abuse.

She clutched her stomach and chest, which felt so immensely empty. It seemed as though her tears had carried with them all of what was remaining of her soul. The intense nothingness was excruciating.

Shadow was soaking wet now, water pouring down her hair, onto her clothing, and from her eyes. At least nobody can tell da difference between rain and tears, she thought bitterly as the steady stream continued to flow. She was seated in the gutter, amongst garbage, without a friend in the world. She had no place to go to, no one to turn to.

So instead of fighting, Shadow simply hugged her knees tightly to her chest, closed her eyes while the tears continued to pour onto her cheeks, and drifted off into a deep, comforting darkness.

In the mirror, Medda caught sight of the newly awakened Shadow. She turned to the newsgirl with a bright smile.
"So you've finally decided to grace the world with your presence," she laughed lightly, as though making an attempt to mollify the evidently serious situation. "Would you like some soup? I think it would do you good to get something in your stomach."

Realizing that she hadn't eaten anything since a vile bagel at lunch and too weak to feel suspicious of Medda (or at least to be leery of her soup), she muttered, "Yeah, t'anks."

The actress gave Shadow a bowl of piping hot chicken soup, steam rising in lazy ribbons from the surface. Shadow sipped carefully at the soup which warmed her body and soothed her empty stomach. As she wordlessly ate, Medda sat by her vanity once again and spoke in a concerned tone which was entirely lost upon the dark-haired girl.

"It's a good thing Toby found you when he did," she said. "He recognized you from the few times you've been here with some of the other newsies, but when he brought you to the lodging house, he found that no one else- not even Kloppman- was there. He knew he couldn't leave you there in your state, so he brought you back here. You were still soaking wet, so I hope you don't mind that I changed you into one of my nightgowns." Shadow glanced down and realized that she was no longer clad in her usual newsie garb but an unnecessarily frilly white nightgown. She would have minded under usual circumstances, but she decided to make an exception this time and listen to Medda as she continued, "If you had been out there unconscious for much longer, and in that weather, something terrible could have happened to you."

Shadow could not raise her eyes from her now nearly empty bowl of soup. Somet'ing bad already happened to me, she thought bitterly. It's called bein' born. Then she realized that Medda had asked her a question. Eyes still focused on the broth, she murmured, "What?"

"Honey, what happened to you? And what about the other newsies?" Medda repeated, deeply worried for the girl and her fellow newsies.

"Dey got taken ta da Refuge," she mumbled, a slow anger festering inside of her. Unlike some of the other newsies, Shadow had rarely visited Irving Hall. The most she knew about Medda was that the 'Swedish Meadowlark' had actually been born in Indiana and that she occasionally dyed her hair to achieve a shade more flamboyant than her natural strawberry blonde. Why was she asking such probing questions when what Shadow really wanted the vaudeville star to do was to send the newsgirl back on her way.

"Why? Did they get in some kind of trouble? Are you in trouble, honey?"

She wished that Medda would stop referring to her as honey. "Beats me, da bulls are jus' funny like dat."

Medda's solemn frown deepened. "There must have been some kind of mistake. Are you sure the newsies aren't in any trouble? And honey, why were you unconscious on the streets? Something must be wrong, please tell me."

Shadow's head snapped up as though she were a marionette controlled by a fierce puppeteer. Her eyes narrowed until they were thin, malicious lines and her voice burned with venom.
"Yeah, somet'ing's wrong!" she shouted vehemently. "Da bulls jus' happen ta be aftah me for somet'ing I couldn't help! And now da newsies are in da Refuge, and dey hate me, and why shouldn't dey, and I'm on da run again, and dis is da way life is gonna be for me forevah, no mattah what, so deah's really no point in you askin' me any more stupid questions!" Leaping to her feet, she knocked the bowl from her lap and onto the floor, where the faux-Persian carpet began to soak up the liquid. The memory of an authentic Persian rug soaking up something else flashed in front of her eyes, and she found that she could no longer stand. She fell to her knees beside the bowl and clutched her stomach in fear of being sick. "Oh, God," she murmured, terrified that tears were going to pour from her eyes again, now with an audience to view her pain.

Medda quickly knelt down beside the girl and attempted to put an arm around Shadow's shoulders, but the newsgirl pulled away like a skittish, injured animal.

"Shadow-" the actress began in a soft, soothing voice, but Shadow quickly interjected fearfully.

"No, ya don't undahstand; nobody can even begin ta undahstand!"

"Oh, honey, that's not true," Medda replied and took Shadow's hand into her own before the girl could protest. "Life has been terrible for you, hasn't it?"

Shadow's lip quivered as she shrugged and gazed around the room, hoping to find anything to rest her eyes upon instead of Medda's sympathetic statement. She didn't dare to answer, afraid that instead of a reply a cry could slip from her mouth.

"You've been hurt badly...oh, you poor dear."

The newsgirl's stomach was twisting painfully and she wondered if the chicken soup was going to make a sudden reappearance. She stared at the door- which, at across the room, seemed to be a thousand miles away- hopefully, as if she were a caged animal. There were invisible bars around Shadow, barriers which had existed for her entire life. But who had constructed these barricades...and for what purpose did they now serve? She clutched her heart, terrified that if she even dared to question the reason for this emotional cage she would be left defenseless against such an unkind world.

"I...I need ta go," she mumbled. "Wheah are my clothes?" She stood and whirled around the room like a demented wooden horse on a frantic carousel. "Wheah are dey?"

Medda rose to her feet as well, clutching Shadow's shoulders to cease her panicked movements. Her eyes stared deeply into the girl's unwilling ones. "Shadow, I want to help you, honey. Please let me."

"Nobody can help me now."

With that hopeless thought, Shadow sank back to the fainting couch, visibly trembling and mentally ordering herself to stop. Her back hunched, she wrapped her arms around her stomach and allowed her hair to cascade from her back, screening her features. Why couldn't I jus' have died out deah on da streets? It woulda been an easy end ta everyt'ing.... Well, I guess I nevah did get da easy way outta t'ings; I nevah did get used ta dat fact.

The redhead breathed a low sigh replete with pity and sadness. She pulled her chair to face Shadow and, with her fingertips pressing gently against the skin under the girl's chin, raised Shadow's head. "Honey, how could you think the newsies would ever hate you? You're one of them."

"I'm about as much of one of dem as you are," she answered stonily.

"What do you mean?"

Just then, a clattering knock invaded the quiet conversation and caused both females to jump slightly. A handsome, older man with graying hair and thick stage makeup pained on his face stuck his head into the room. His clown's smile did not serve to brighten the expressions of neither Medda nor Shadow under these conditions. "You're on in five, Medda; it's a smashing crowd tonight."

Without hesitation, the actress answered assuredly, "Cal, tell one of the other girls to fill in for me- Gertrude, she's been practicing so hard. I can't go on tonight."

The man eyed Shadow for a moment before nodding solemnly at Medda. "I'll tell her." The door shut softly behind him, leaving the two in privacy once again.

Shadow gaped at Medda. Why da hell did she cancel tahnight for me? I barely know her. If it had been Jack- of coise, Jack, he's her favorite- or Race or Pocket or Violet or anybody besides me and dey were in trouble, I could see dat. But she barely knows me; why da hell would she care about me?

The actress turned to the newsgirl again, not choosing to comment or even react to Shadow's statement of bewilderment. "Honey, the newsies could never hate you. Why do you think they do?"

The words were pressing against Shadow's lips, her tongue, her teeth, praying for release from her body. "I...I..." she murmured, a great conflict occurring in her spirit. If she admitted the truth, Medda would certainly glare at the girl in disgust and throw her out into the streets again. And yet she had taken her in and given her soup and even (or perhaps, Shadow thought, it was merely her imagination) seemed to genuinely care about the girl's predicament. She drew a deep breath and, fighting the instincts of a lifetime, murmured so softly that Medda had to guess at her words rather than hear them, "I'm in trouble. A lotta trouble. And dat hoit da newsies." She paused in apprehension and adopted an statement reminiscent of an abused dog who was certain of receiving a beating from its master.

"What kind of trouble? Anything that involves the police?"

Shadow nodded feebly, keeping her eyes focused on her lap. "Yeah, and dat's why da newsies- and I guess Kloppman, too- all got locked up."

"How did you get into trouble, honey? Is it anything that can be helped? Can I help you in any way?" she inquired hopefully and pushed a lock of hair out of the newsgirl's eyes.

"I..." The worse caught in Shadow's throat and she wondered aimlessly if she were going to choke on them. Jus' tell her a distant, calm voice murmured compassionately. But then another, more familiar voice interjected with cruel remarks. As if she'd undahstand ya. Ya t'ink she really cares about what happened ta ya? She jus' t'inks it's somet'ing like Jack's past; she doesn't know what kinda scum ya actually are. If possible, Shadow felt even more ill and clutched at her stomach as she shook her head despondently. "I can't..." she murmured, "I just can't."

"It's okay, honey, you don't have to," Medda assured the girl. Shadow nodded thankfully, still staring at her lap and willing her stomach to calm itself. "Can you tell me why you think the newsies would hate you?"

Shadow rolled her eyes and scowled, "Come on. I got dem t'rown in jail. Dat's not some'ting ya're likely ta forget all dat soon, unless you'se about as smart as da Delancy bruddahs."

"If I know the newsies like I think I do," Medda replied solemnly, "they care about the welfare of those they care for more than anything else."

The newsgirl scoffed bitterly and glared viciously at the carpet, daggers from her eyes shooting at the bowl. She longed for her legs to regain strength so she would be able to rise up and bolt away until she reached the something she had been literally aching for during those frigid, solitary nights sleeping in alleys, those moments lying so vulnerable beside some pervert, even those evenings sitting along on the roof of the lodging house as she started up into the stars, words swirling in her mind.
"Well, I'se sure as hell not anyone dey'd care about like dat."

"Shadow," Medda murmured gravely, her eyes far more serious than Shadow had ever seen them and her statement devoid of its usual gaiety, "have the newsies ever given you even the slightest reason to doubt them?"

Shadow gazed up and locked eyes- eyes that were so frightened, so full of intense longing- with Medda's. Then she swiftly shut her eyelids and willed the answer to appear, but it did not come.

"Boarding for Detroit! Last train for Detroit!"

The loud, slightly hoarse voice of the stationmaster resonated against the dark metal of the train and pained Shadow's ears. Her headache hadn't disappeared entirely and the combined roar of the station master, the train's shrill whistle, and the crowds at Grand Central Station were doing nothing to improve it. The stench of burning coal attacked her and caused her to wonder if she were about to pass out- or perhaps it wasn't simply the intense smell which was causing her stomach to twist so violently- but she firmly ordered herself to remain conscious. Instead of allowing her mind to wander to other matters, she stared at the train which loomed ominously before her. She had only a few steps to take and she would disappear again.

In her hand, which was growing steadily warmer with some emotion she dared not name, she clutched a single ticket. Good t'ing I still had da money I made sellin' tahday, she realized as she studied the passengers who were already entering the train. Oddahwise I'd be walkin' outta da city.

"Kiss the children for me," a good-looking man with a well-trimmed mustache and glasses which sparkled even in the night said to his wife, an equally attractive blonde woman. He pressed a swift kiss to her cheek.

"We'll all be here to meet you when you return next week," she replied with a small smile. "No doubt they'll have grown so much that you won't recognize them." The two laughed lightly and shared another embrace.

Shadow cast the couple a single, withering glance, but they were too involved in their farewell to notice. Sickened at the sight, she turned away and studied other passengers, all of whom seemed to be well dressed and possessing several pieces of massive, matching luggage. Shadow had nothing on her person, not even her beloved journal.

She exhaled heavily and stared at the large, ebony train before her. The last time she had been on a train had been years ago...three years ago, to be precise. Her blood pounded wildly at the thought; then, it had seemed to be an escape, the only logical action which could be taken for survival. Now she felt as though her feet were cemented to the ground.

Come on, no time ta be a tremblin' mouse, she told herself, though with not nearly enough persuasion to convince herself, and dragged her feet closer to the train, which seemed to be the color of a bullet.

She lifted herself onto the train and was quite aware of the odd stares she was receiving from some of the more well-to-do passengers. The wealthy woman's voice from that afternoon- had it only been that long ago?- echoed throughout Shadow's mind. Well, what can you expect from these newsies? Newsies.

Who da hell am I? Shadow demanded fiercely of herself as the din of the station seemed to distance itself from her. A newsie, a whore, a killah? Jus' who am I, anyway?

"Last call for Detroit! ALL ABOARD!" the station master bellowed at the top of his lungs and took a step onto the train.

Suddenly the engine began to huff and puff like an elderly man who had been inhaling a steady stream of expensive cigars since age twelve. A sharp whistle pierced Shadow's ears like a thousand needles and a cloud of thick, murky smoke filled the air. Several people still standing on the platform smiled sadly to those on board, who in return waved from their comfortable chairs in luxurious sitting rooms.

Shadow's heart was pounding madly now and she wondered if she were about to have a heart attack. At least it would tell me if my heart's still deah, she ruefully admitted to herself.

A hand reached out from seemingly nowhere and rested on Shadow's shoulder, causing the girl to whirl around in terror. The frenzy in her eyes did not decrease when she saw it was merely an attendant.

"Would you please take your seat now, miss?" he asked with forced politeness as he began to imagine what a girl like Shadow was doing on the very last train of the evening.

Shit, Shadow thought regretfully, glancing from the attendant to the platform (just as the train gave the tiniest of lurches and began to pull away from those still smiling) and back again. She drew a deep breath and took the single step that would permanently decide the course of her life.

Joseph Pulitzer was practically gnawing on the cigar positioned between his lips that were, at that moment, set in a very determined, very unamused frown. He paced like a caged lion around the former office of the former Warden Snyder, eyes narrowing with each passing minute. His clenched fists were stuffed into the pockets of his expensive, Italian jacket.
With a venomous stare, he turned to face Detective Sarmons and Snyder, and growled, "I will not stand for my profits to diminish any further; you will free the newsies by tomorrow morning, or there will be hell to pay."

"Mr.. Pulitzer, I'm afraid that can't be done," Snyder answered with forced calm. "The newsies were harboring a dangerous criminal- a murderer- and that crime cannot go-"

"I don't care if they were all involved in the assassination of James Garfield. They will be released immediately. I don't want one paper to go unsold."

"I'm afraid," Snyder continued, his voice rising ever so slightly with anger and frenzy, "that this is a matter for the court to decide, and not a newspaper publisher."

Pulitzer crossed his arms challengingly over his chest. He was not about to be undone by an unemployed man evidently bent on some form of revenge. "As I am told, the newsies all claim to have had no idea of this Lucia Navar's previous activities. This also goes for that man- what's his name?- Kloppman."

"The newsies are hardly reliable sources-" the former warden answered swiftly, but Pulitzer was quick to interject.

"Listen to me," he demanded ferociously. "Have you ever heard Hearst's quote concerning the Spanish-American War? 'You furnish the pictures and I'll furnish the war'." His voice dropped dangerously lower. "I can create a war against you, Snyder, with a snap of my fingers."

Detective Sarmons leaned against the wall, arms folded over his chest, and studied the two arguing males with well-concealed contempt. He had no interest in the newsies, and rather wished that Pulitzer would simply release the hooligans so that Sarmons would be free of Snyder. He had served his purpose and now the detective didn't care about his wishes in the slightest. All that had ever mattered was catching the girl, serving justice. Sarmons's eyes were replete with frustration and restlessness; he needed to be out on the streets, searching for Lucia, not waiting for the outcome of a shallow argument. He could practically feel the girl stalking the streets. His heart raced, blood pounding in his ears and drowning out the noise of the disagreement. Then the door flew open with the force of a gale, slamming against the wall and sounding like a gunshot.

Shadow stood very calmly in the doorframe, breathing heavily. She was completely soaked yet again, her hair plastered to her face although she made no move to brush it back. Her eyes, solemn and dogged, immediately locked with those of the detective, who instantly leapt to attention.

"Let 'em go," she stated quite simply, staring gravely at Sarmons as though there were no other people in the room.

"Arrest her!" Snyder shouted, but as Shadow took a panicked step back, Sarmons lifted his hand and gestured for the former warden to be silent.
Shadow glanced from person to person and then, finally resting her gaze upon Sarmons once again, repeated, "Let 'em go. Dey had no idea about me dis whole time. I'll go willin'ly if ya jus' let 'em go." She caught sight of Snyder making a small movement towards her and took another step backwards, though she still stared at Sarmons. "It took ya t'ree years to find me heah, and ya still nevah exactly caught me. Jus' let 'em go and I'll come willin'ly."

With a single, barely visible nod, Sarmons moved to an unprotesting Shadow and swiftly handcuffed her. "Sarmons, you can't do this," the former warden growled in protest, his eyes blazing with fury at the thought of the newsies walking away free after only one night in the Refuge. "The proper legal actions must take place; we can't just let the newsies go on the whim of this murderer."

The detective looked to Snyder with a viciously forbidding statement which served to silence the older man. "Justice is served," he murmured gravely, then turned to stare at Shadow with a certain glimmer in his eyes which shook the very core of her. There was something in his gaze which served to unnerve her to no end...something beyond the fact that he had desired her capture.

He noticed the uneasy, inquisitive manner in her eyes and swiftly turned again to Snyder, who, though still quiet, possessed an expression of rage and bewilderment. "Take this criminal to your best cell. I will send for her tomorrow morning- when the trial will begin."

Shadow felt as though she had been savagely and thoroughly beaten. A trial? Images of compassionless juries, corrupted judges, and scores of death sentences flashed through her mind. There seemed to be absolutely no hope for her now.

At least da newsies are gonna get off, she thought to herself with as much calmness as she could muster up at that point. Maybe justice is served.

"Move along," Snyder growled ferociously as he pushed the girl through the doorway (she nearly stumbled and fell to the unkind ground, but was able to balance herself at the last possible moment) and down a series of dark hallways. She imagined ancient castles and dank dungeons in the deepest basements, where the rats were practically as big as dogs and would attack humans if other food wasn't available. The farther they marched, the clearer the realization came to Shadow that she would be unable to see the moon during her last night alive. With bitter anguish, she recalled her myriads of wishes to blend into the shadows and vanish forever. It seemed as though her wish would at last be granted.

Though she couldn't see them in the darkness, Shadow had to wonder if rats were indeed occupying her cell. Every so often, the sounds of tiny claws and teeth scraping against the stone walls caused her stomach to clench. She shuddered against her will and then berated herself for the action. Ya should be used ta dem by now. And unless dey decide ta hang ya, ya beddah get used ta dem, she told herself fiercely, not permitting even the slightest trace of a tear to make itself evident in her stony eyes.

The air was stale and caused the girl to feel even more sickened. She longed for a window, if nothing else, but even that wish wasn't about to be granted. What da hell did I do? She demanded of herself, and would have knocked her head against the wall she was leaning against in frustration had she not possessed enough of a headache already. Who's ta know if dat detective guy actually set da newsies free...not dat dey had any reason ta be in heah. But people are screwed up anyway; dey could always make up some phony charge and lock us all up 'till forevah jus' for da fun of it. Lock us all up...all of us unless dey kill me foist.

She raked her ragged nails against the stonewalls as if hoping to escape. What da hell did I do dat for? Couldn't I have t'ought up somet'ing dat wasn't totally brainless? Shit.

The sound of shoes scraping softly against the hallway floor interjected in her thoughts. Her eyes snapped open and she pressed herself fearfully to the wall like a caged animal. Dat's not so far from da truth, she remarked bitterly and studied the door, where she was certain someone stood on the other side. She heard a plate being placed gently in front of the door and muttered with pointed fury, "What is dis, my last meal or somet'ing?"

"If dis is you'se last meal, you'd beddah complain ta da waitah," a familiar voice quipped.

"Specs!" Shadow, leaping forward from her position, cried in near shock and then clamped her hand over her mouth in fear that someone might have heard her exclamation. After a moment, when she was certain that no one was approaching and in a faint whisper, she continued, "Whadda ya doin' heah? I t'ought all you'se woulda been let go. Damnit, what a moron I am."

"No, dey let us out all right," he assured her. "I dunno if it's 'cause of what you'se did or 'cause dey ain't got no right ta keep us in heah. But in any case, we'se out."

Shadow breathed an inaudible sigh of relief. Well, if anything, at least that was taken care of. Before she could ponder the matter any further, her curiosity got the better of her and she began to spit out a thousand questions at once. "How did ya know what I did? And how did ya get heah? Why ain't you'se outta dis hellhole? And did dat-"

"Hey, slow down," Specs requested. "How could we not know what ya did? It's about as easy ta keep a secret in dis joint as it is ta walk blindfolded and drunk across da head of da Statue of Libahty. People 'ovahheah' stuff. And I'se heah because I..." he trailed off.

"Because why?" Shadow prompted impatiently, folding her arms over her chest.

"Because I'm worried about ya, all right?" he snapped vehemently.

She rolled her eyes and longed for a cigarette. "So what I am supposed ta do, t'ank ya or somet'ing?" she asked stonily and then, her anger increasing, took a few steps towards the door. "Look, I didn't get you'se free 'cause I need ya or not'ing, if dat's what ya was t'inking. It was just helpin' ya out 'cause I got ya t'rown in heah in da foist place. It doesn't mean I want your help or need ya or anyt'ing."

A moment of tense silence followed and she imagined Specs growing intensely solemn on the opposite side of the door (although it seemed to be a much greater distance that separated them at that moment).

"Shadow," he finally murmured, his voice like ice, "you're gonna need all da help ya can get." The sound of swift, retreating footsteps followed and soon Shadow was alone once again.

She fell to the floor, not caring if the rats swarmed around her. What am I doin'? she insisted of herself, Why da hell did I jus' say dat ta him? Medda was right befoah...but I jus' couldn't take it if he turns out ta be like I always t'ought people would be eventually. A faint but dogged voice in her mind whispered in its usual sly nature that she didn't need any of them, that she had always landed on her feet before and why should this time be any different? Yeah, but what did landin' on my feet evah get me befoah?

The sound of nearing footsteps caused her eyes to brighten momentarily. "Specs?" she murmured hopefully and rose to her feet. Taking a step towards the door, she inquired, "Ya deah?"

She received no answer and was about to repeat her inquiry when the door sluggishly creaked open, bathing the room in dim light. A tall figure entered, one which certainly wasn't Specs. For a moment, Shadow couldn't make out the features of the silhouette due to the light stretching into the cell. Then the door inched shut, enveloping the two in thick darkness, and Shadow found that she faced none other than Detective Sarmons himself.

She retreated to the wall yet again, finding the darkest possible place in which she could take cover. She didn't allow herself even the smallest movements, not even the next breath; she simply became a living shadow. And she could not be certain, but she thought she caught sight of the faintest hint of a grin appear at the corners of the detective's lips.

Gathering as much boldness as she could muster at that point in time, she demanded harshly, "What is it? What do ya want from me now?"

A barely audible chuckle hung in the air as though from gallows. "Want? There's nothing more I want from you. You've been captured and tomorrow you will go before a judge who will decide the fairest punishment for your crimes; and justice will be served. What more can there be than that?"

Shadow's stomach tightened as she listened. Something about his voice unnerved her; it seemed to be the vocal embodiment of his eyes.

He began to stroll calmly around the cell, as cool as though he were walking through Central Park on a pleasant Sunday afternoon. "I don't think you truly realize what three years can mean to a person. I can't imagine a killer like yourself must be plagued with thoughts of remorse; I wonder if you even recalled the situation until yesterday." He paused momentarily and the newsgirl could tell that he was glancing at her shadowy figure. "However, I have been deeply involved in this case since the moment I was called from my office to see that cadaver lying on the blood-stained carpet." Shadow's stomach gave a violent lurch, but she ordered herself to remain visibly detached under the detective's disconcerting stare. She eyed the man coldly, wondering if she could reduce him to ash with her mere stare.

"I must say, when I first took the case I never expected it to last this long," he admitted casually, shrugging slightly and indifferently. "But as the congressman kept his...ah...affairs well hidden, it was more than a bit difficult to track you down. By the time I discovered his activities, you had long since disappeared from Chicago." A slow grin suffused across his mouth until he was smiling almost savagely. Despite the darkness, Shadow thought she could see his large teeth- which seemed to be shaped like bullets- glimmering wickedly. "But here we are- and justice will be served."

"What is it wid ya and justice?" Shadow questioned, a note of fear rising in her voice. "What's da big deal about catchin' me?"

His lips dropped into a grave frown and his eyes flashed dangerously. "Justice is everything. I can't abide by a single criminal walking on the streets. They actually desire hurting innocent people like Anna."

"Anna?" she echoed thoughtfully, but the detective would not allow interruption. He continued as though he hadn't heard her.

"I will not rest until I'm about to lock up every heartless, cold-blooded criminal, including yourself. Justice is everything."

A deep, angry vermilion had suffused over the detective's sallow cheeks. He clenched his hands into violent fists, and Shadow imagined them clutching guns, clutching a young woman's fragile neck. She gazed into his eyes and was forced to bite her lower lip to keep from screaming; he had a bestial expression, like a predator consumed with blood lust and prepared to pounce on the nearest available prey. She recalled other eyes which were just was inhumane.

"Who's...who's Anna?" she inquired, voice quavering slightly.

"I will not allow that to happen again," he mumbled as though replying to voices other than Shadow's. "It can't happen ever again."

"What can't?" she whispered, eying him fearfully. She felt her heart beginning to pound against her chest, increasing with speed and insanity with each passing second.

His eyes, wild and frozen, snapped to meet hers. Teeth practically clenched, he growled, "Killers such as yourself can't fathom lawfulness or humanity in the slightest. You're possessed by blood lust, can't even see what's before you because you’re always obsessed with killing." His tone was dizzily increasing in speed. "That blindness never ends. Murderers like you can't grasp concepts such as justice, not like I can."

Shadow felt the blood drain from her face and vaguely wondered if her countenance was now as pale as the full moon she could not see. "What happened to Anna?" she demanded with a faint note of frenzy in her voice.

He retreated a step and his hands began to tremble visibly. "That wasn't anything like what you've done," he growled deep in his throat, although Shadow wondered if he were actually speaking for her benefit. "I didn't know she was telling the truth...oh my poor wife... How could I have known? I am nothing like you!"

She dug her nails into the wall in fear that she would fall unconscious. She longed to melt into the stone and vanish, although this time her reasons for disappearance were far different from what they had previously been. Her blood pounded so madly in her ears that she was nearly unable to hear the words emitted from her own lips. "Anna...ya killed her, didn't ya?"

"You have no idea what you're talking about!" he insisted too forcefully, eyes flashing tumultuously.

"Ya killed her."

"I am nothing like you!"

His teeth and fists were both clenched fiercely now, so that his strong jaw line was clearly defined and his knuckles were the shade of flawless porcelain. Dots of perspiration were flecked along his brow like roughly cut diamonds. Shadow closed her mouth immediately, in fear that he would lash out against her in his rage.

She eyed him cautiously, expression blank, and thought, He must've t'ought she was cheatin' on him or somet'ing, and he killed her, but he didn't know hat he was doin'. And dis is what's left of him because of dat heart beneath da floorboards in his mind. She felt ill as she studied him, wondering if she would become just as insane.

The sound of his deep, inconstant breathing echoed against the stone walls. His eyes flashed with fury as he glared at her, eyes becoming narrow ebony slits. "Tomorrow, come hell or high water, I will make certain that you never have the opportunity to kill anyone ever again." Off of her stoic expression, his eyes narrowed closer still. Then a malicious, bestial grin crept around his lips and he strode out of the cell, chuckling sinisterly. Shadow's bones quaked at the sound.

Jail cells were not created in such a fashion that permitted the occupant the luxury of a good night's sleep. Unlike the other cells in the Refuge, where pickpockets and gang members and children who had swiped loaves of bread so they could feed their starving families resided, there hadn't been a bed where Shadow could recline in some form of comfort. She hadn't even been tossed a thin, threadbare blanket or a worn pillow. Attempting to ignore the rats, she had slid to the floor, hugging her knees to her chest, and leaned her head against the stone wall. Sleep had been difficult to find, and the few times the newsgirl had momentarily drifted off into a restless slumber, her dreams were filled with nightmarish creatures- juries composed of monsters with knives lining their mouths instead of teeth, women in scant clothing hanging from trees, and familiar cadavers rising up (their eyes yellow like those of one possessed) and reaching their bony hands out to her neck. Shadow would awaken with a start, her breathing heavy and icy perspiration gathered at her nape. When Detective Sarmons, Snyder, and the current warden appeared at her door early that morning, Shadow vaguely wondered if she should attempt to escape. However, her muscles simply would not carry out such a task, and she was handcuffed without offering resistance.

As soon as Shadow stepped into the courtroom, the fatigue melted away and anxiety swiftly appeared in its place. Her stomach began to twist violently as she was led (or rather, shoved) to a particularly uncomfortable wooden chair at the table usually reserved for the defense. Shadow knew she didn't stand much chance of being defended; she had no lawyer, no witness to speak on her behalf. And even if I did, who'd believe my side of da story anyway? she thought bitterly.

So dis is it, she remarked to herself with calm surrender. Because I tried ta save my own life t'ree years ago, now I'se gonna be killed for it. I shoulda used dat bullet for myself when I had da chance.

The clamor of several pairs of heavy boots treading against the polished wooden floor of the courtroom interjected into Shadow's thoughts. She turned slightly in her chair, eyes widening as she caught sight of the noise. Shit, she thought and tried in vain to maintain a cool demeanor at the sight of the newsies shuffling into the courtroom, why didn't I know dis soonah? She closed her eyelids, willing the puddles of teardrops pooling in her eyes to disappear and turning away from the newsies, and listened to the dull noise which now filled the courtroom. The newsies were whispering amongst themselves about if Shadow would be able to get out of this one, and if she didn't what would happen to her? Although she couldn't see him, she knew that Detective Sarmons was seated calmly and silently at the table for the prosecution along with Snyder and the new warden of the Refuge. A tall, stocky policeman with a thick brown mustache (which seemed to compensate for his receding hairline) stood beside the mahogany bench, arms folded over his chest and occasionally clearing his throat. Shadow strained her ears, hoping to catch a few syllables of any conversation that might be occurring in the judge's chambers. She prayed for an understanding magistrate, someone who would believe her story despite the evidence against her. A voice in her head remarked bitterly that she might as well be praying for a miracle, and miracles rarely seemed to occur in New York City.

"All rise, all rise," the bailiff bellowed, silencing all discussion and causing Shadow to open her eyes and leap to her feet. When she caught sight of the older man clad in well-pressed robes the shade of shoe polish, her heart contracted and seemed to splinter into a thousand pieces. A unified gasp would have been emitted from the newsies, had they all not been stunned into silent defeat. "Court is now in session. Judge E. A. Monahan presiding."

I ain't got a prayer, Shadow told herself as she slid back into the chair and began to imagine what death sentence she would be given.

Specs grew a bit paler at the sight of the judge. He knew all too well the corrupt workings of the legal system, particularly when dealing with low-class criminals as he as been years prior. He recalled standing before Monahan himself when Specs had been a young boy, already hardened against a world that seemed to take pleasure in kicking him down. Now it seemed as though by fighting against such a world, Shadow would be put to death.

"Cause of Lucia Navar, aka Shadow," the bailiff announced as Monahan sifted through some papers laid out on his bench and studied them meticulously. "Prostitution. First-degree murder. Resisting arrest. Robbery." The newsies glanced at each other, fearful for Shadow's life and wondering what would have caused her to commit so many crimes (if she had indeed committed them). Shadow felt the hateful eyes of the present and former wardens burning into her flesh. She couldn't turn to face either of them or the newsies in fear of the tears gathering yet again; instead she focused on Monahan as he stared at the papers in his hand, sifting through the newsgirl's past and considering her future.

Monahan set the papers in a neat pile on his bench once again and raised his eyes to meet with Shadow's. Perhaps it was her imagination, but she thought she caught sight of something flash in his eyes for a split second. She couldn't be certain, for then he turned to Detective Sarmons, who had risen to his feet.

"Your honor, if I may make an opening statement..." he requested in a voice so smooth that Shadow imagined him as a fat tabby who had just swallowed a canary.

"Go ahead, detective," the judge replied solemnly, nodding his head once.

Sarmons folded his hands behind his back and began to pace coolly in front of the bench. His confident, self-righteous tone filled the courtroom. "Three years ago, the praised Senator Bainesworth of Chicago, Illinois was savagely murdered by a young prostitute, Lucia Navar, who had worked in such a profession for at least a year before the murder. The senator was discovered slain on the evening of December 14th in his summer home. His wallet was empty-"

Cause he already paid me, ya moron, Shadow growled inwardly and attempted to maintain a calm demeanor.

"-and a bullet was lodged in his brain. Lucia Navar was already on a train to New York City, hiding from the police for committing such a heinous crime. She managed to evade the police multiple times before capture."

Try turnin' myself in...conceited psycho, she thought as her eyes narrowed.

"Even now, after three years, she feels no remorse for her actions. This murderer is a severe threat to society and should be immediately and drastically punished for her vile crimes. On the behalf of the state of New York, I implore you to make certain that justice is served." The detective cast Shadow a swift glance of triumph and disgust before turning back to Monahan with a solemn statement. "Thank you, your honor."

Shadow's fingernails dug into the arms of her chair, her eyes narrowed to dangerous slits and her teeth clenched. As Sarmons moved to his seat and Monahan opened his mouth to speak, Shadow exploded from her chair. Her eyes blazed with dark fire.

"Ya're a liar, Sarmons, a damn liar!" she screamed, her voice filled with lightning that shocked the occupants of the courtroom into silence. "Ya make me sound like dis cold-blooded killah who don't got a conscience and who nevah even t'ought of dat night until tahday! And ya make Baineswoith sound like some kinda saint, when ya goddam know he was more of a killah den I'll evah be! Ya don't undahstand not'ing about dis; all ya know is dat ya want me dead jus' so ya can stop whatevah guilt you have. Ya're da one who should be up heah, not me, 'cause all I evah tried ta do was ta stay alive. Dat's all I evah asked for! And now you'se takin' dat away from me for somet'ing I had ta do. For somet'ing dat anyone else heah woulda done in my place!"

She paused, breathing hard and glaring ferociously as Sarmons, whose own rage was beginning to ignite. The sound of Monahan's controlled voice interrupted the furious electricity building between the two.

"Another outburst like that, and I'll hold you in contempt of court," he told Shadow, who slowly turned to face him with eyes as wide as soup tureens and feeling that it was all over for her now. She nodded and began to sink into her chair again, prepared for the worst, when Monahan continued, this time to the bailiff, "Bring the defendant to my chambers."

Shadow felt as though the ground was quaking as she rose to her feet. She sluggishly trailed behind Monahan as he marched to his chambers. Behind her, the bailiff was glowering at her suspiciously and irritably as he wondered about just what the judge was doing. As the door to the chambers closed quietly behind them, dozens of hushed conversations rose amongst the newsies.

"I ain't nevah seen Monahan do dat befoah," Pocket admitted in a high-pitched voice.

"Me neiddah," Dutchy said. "I dunno if dis is a good sign or a real bad one."

"What do you think he wants to see her for?" Ivy inquired, her voice quavering slightly.

"I dunno," Specs replied gravely as he studied the heavy wooden door separating them from Shadow. "I jus' hope it doesn't land her in any more trouble than she's already in."

The aroma of expensive cigars was firmly imbedded in the leather and mahogany furniture of Monahan's chambers. Bookcases lined the walls, and were packed with leather-bound tomes of obviously the most serious reading material. A rosewood clock ticked away the time with strict preciseness. The room was carpeted with lush Turkish rugs and Shadow felt somewhat guilt that her battered boots were scuffing the intricate designs of pears and roses. The judge himself sat in a throne-like chair of the smoothest brown leather, staring at the newsgirl from his massive, organized desk.

"Have a seat," he said, gesturing to a smaller chair that was far less extravagant than his own and positioned in front of his desk.

Quaking slightly, Shadow did as she was told. She sat erect at the edge of the chair, as though prepared to bolt out of the room at even a condemning blink from Monahan. She wanted to burst out as she had in the courtroom, to tell the judge that despite what he must think about newsies such as her (she remembered all too clearly the events of Jack's trial), she hadn't murdered the senator out of some evil in her heart. However, demanding that she be let off and telling Monahan to go to hell didn't seem like the best of plans, especially with the bailiff glowering at her back.

"You are completely aware of the charges held against you?" he inquired solemnly, if a little condescendingly, as he folded his hands and placed them on the desk.

Shadow felt as though she were a troublesome schoolgirl facing a stern headmaster. She nodded, murmuring, "Yeah." Hearing the bailiff pointedly clear his throat, she swiftly added, "Your honah."

"And you are knowledgeable of what will happen to you if you are found guilty of murder in the first degree?"

"I'd be pretty stupid if I wasn't," she snapped automatically. "Um, your honah."

He paused momentarily. "How old are you, Lucia?"

The newsgirl raised an eyebrow and could only blink at the judge for a moment. Whatever she had suspected in his line of questioning, this was certainly not it. "Um, seventeen. I'll be eighteen in Novembah." Her forehead furrowed in confusion as she leaned back in her chair. "If ya don't mind me asking, why do ya wanna know?"

Monahan, sighing faintly, rose from his chair and strolled to one of his bookcases. Shadow vaguely wondered if he had a shotgun or noose concealed behind his myriad of books, but instead his fingers toughed upon a framed photograph of a man and a woman, both nearing middle age, surrounded by three children of various ages. They were all clad in expensive clothing imported from Paris, the woman's hair piled high in a fashionable style and the man bearing a gold pocket watch. Each person bore the same somber expression, as though they were prepared for a spelling bee rather than a portrait. Monahan presented the picture to Shadow, who studied it in bewilderment.

"This was taken many years ago, of course," he remarked, leaning against the edge of his desk. "My children are much older now, have married and gone on with their own lives."

Then the newsgirl realized that the tall, mustached man in the photograph was none other than Judge Monahan himself. Standing before him the courtroom both minutes ago and after the strike's first rally, she hadn't even considered the possibility that he had had a life outside of the legal system. Of course, he didn't commonly bear the aura of a loving family man; he had seemed more intent on getting through as many cases as possible than on attending his son's first violin recital.

"My youngest child- the girl to the far right," he continued, "is my daughter Cecilia. She gave birth to her first child, a girl, yesterday morning."

A small smile appeared at the corners of Shadow's lips as she gazed at the girl in the photograph. She imagined a curly-haired little girl, nose speckled with freckles, growing up to sing soprano selections from Mozart, to learn French at a young ladies' academy, to not be afraid of everyone and have to wondered how she would survive each day.

"This is my first grandchild," he remarked and absently stroked his mustache. "For the first time yesterday, I was present for the birth of a child. Naturally, I was not present at my own children's births." At first Shadow assumed that Judge Monahan was being serious, but then she glanced up to see a glimmer of facetiousness in his eyes.

"When I was a young man, I promised myself that I would be a great judge. I graduated from law school at the top of my class and decided that nothing would ever deter me from performing my duty as a judge." He stood erect and began to pace slowly in front of Shadow. "Not even my family."

Memories flashed in the judge's eyes, of case after case, murderers and rapists and juvenile delinquents standing before his massive bench. Move it along, he thought grimly. He thought of his children whom he had barely known; they met as strangers living in the same household. And yet yesterday, as he held his granddaughter in his arms for the first time, he felt not only love and pride, but genuine fear and regret for the first time in his life. Gazing down at Shadow, he wondered what kind of a childhood she had led.

"I asked you here," he explained calmly, "to give you a chance to explain yourself. It's what I would want if my child were in the same position."

Shadow's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates and the blood completely fled from her cheeks. She blinked at the judge and leaned forward in her chair. "Um, excuse me?" she murmured incredulously.

"Why did you kill Senator Bainesworth?"

She paused, listening to the sound of her own heart pounding and wondering if Monahan could hear it as well. Her body seemed to become a statue as a stubborn, caustic voice sliced through her mind. He ain't gonna believe ya, ya know. He's jus' like da rest of 'em, maybe even woise. Tellin' ya about his kids was jus' some kinda plot or somet'ing. He's gonna t'ink you'se not'ing but a whore and a murderah and he'll set you'se execution date befoah ya can get out da door. She gnawed anxiously at her lower lip and squirmed in her chair like a small child at church. Then a second voice, faint but kind, debated, Who knows? Ya t'ought da newsies would hate ya, but look at what happened wid dem. What's da woist dat could happen? Jus' trust someone already...

"Well..." she gulped down her fear and gathered as much courage as she could. "I knew dat if I didn't kill him, he was gonna kill me."

Silenced swelled in the room for a moment, as Shadow fearfully gazed down at her palms. Her heart beat madly against her chest so that she absently wondered if it would burst, ending her life before Monahan even had the chance to sentence her to hanging. Then she glanced up, with more hope in her eyes than had ever existed in her spirit, and saw that Monahan wasn't smirking, wasn't about to mock her or throw her back in jail for her crimes. For once, he waited patiently for a young criminal to speak.

Shadow drew a small breath and continued very quietly, "I guess it started when I was still a kid, in da Bronx..."

The head of the match sparked, and then burst into flames as Snyder scraped it against the bottom of his shoe. Scowling, he clumsily lit a cigarette and drew a long, hard drag. "Where are they?" he grumbled softly as he glared at the heavy wooden door. "Monahan was always excellent about immediately sending criminals to jail where they belong. What could he possibly be doing this time?"

Although his eyes were also focused on the door, Detective Sarmons had managed to ignore the ex-warden's complaints. Unlike Snyder, the detective sat very calmly, as though he were relaxing on a park bench rather than awaiting a criminal's fate in a courtroom. Even his grave, intense eyes possessed an uncharacteristic sense of serenity. Had Sarmons been a man who cared to express his thoughts, he would have told Snyder not to worry, that Lucia unquestionably would soon be dangling from a sturdy tree branch.

I've captured an elusive, bloodthirsty criminal and justice is about to be served, Sarmons remarked to himself as a slow, serpentine grin spread across his lips. Years of painful effort are finally coming to a perfect end. In the back of the courtroom, Specs paced back and forth like a caged lion, ready to pounce on any available prey. His eyes flashed dangerously from Sarmons to the chamber door to his companions.

"Ya t'ink if we hit him ovah da back of da head, he'll calm down?" whispered Painter to Snoddy.

"I don't think he'll calm down even if we give him a good sedative," he, raising his eyebrows, muttered in return.

Dutchy moved to put a hand on his friend's shoulder, halting the boy's incessant movement. "Heya, Specs, ya gotta cool it," he said quietly, as though he were speaking to a wild animal. "Walkin' a hole inta da floor ain't exactly gonna make Shadow come out heah any fastah."

The other newsie sighed heavily and roughly pushed a hand through his hair. "I can't help it," he replied solemnly. "I know Monahan; he'd just assume t'row us all in jail, jus' like dat detective guy ovah deah." He gestured to Sarmons, whose eyes were fixated on the door.
The newsie fell silent at the sight of the detective, whom he had never truly noticed before. At first glance, he looked like any other man on the sidewalks. Specs had most likely sold hundreds of papers to men just like him- a once handsome gentleman wearing his age and frustration on his face and back. And yet there was something in Sarmons's eyes that made Specs shudder slightly, despite the sweltering mid-morning air.

"All rise," the bailiff’s voice echoed against the walls of the courtroom, causing everyone else's chatter to instantly cease. Monahan and Shadow emerged from the next room, although no one could infer anything from their stoic expressions.

Both Specs and Detective Sarmons studied Shadow as she marched back to her chair. To even the most keen of observers, she appeared utterly detached, her mouth set in a perfectly straight line and her eyes replete of even the slightest traces of tears. However, the newsboy noticed that she was a shade more pale than usual and her hands were trembling ever so slightly. Specs assumed that she must have been absolutely petrified.

So he didn't tell ya if he was gonna t'row ya in jail or not, Shadow remarked to herself as she attempted to steady her nerves. At least he listened ta ya. Dat was somet'ing. At least he didn't jus' t'row ya ta da wolves. She turned slowly in her seat to glance back at the newsies. Feeling her spirit sink, she inwardly sighed, Why did it take all dis ta get me ta realize?

Her thoughts were interrupted by Monahan noisily clearing his throat. Immediately she whirled back around to face the judge. Clenching the arms of the chair as though they were a life preserver, she imagined the worst.

"This case," the judge began, "cannot be so strictly defined by words such as murder and prostitute and crime. Life is never quite so simple. Earlier, Detective Sarmons said that the 'praised Senator Bainesworth' had been 'savagely murdered' by Lucia Navar, at that time working as a prostitute in Chicago. That information is indeed correct. Lucia herself"-he nodded to Shadow-"admits to both prostitution and taking a man's life. Obviously, these are both abhorrent crimes that should not be permitted to go unpunished in a just society."

Shadow felt her heart shrivel up in her chest. Dat's what ya get for trustin' people, she remarked to herself, bitterness dripping down her throat like a burning liquor.

"However," he continued smoothly, "in the case of Lucia Navar, I find that there are many extenuating circumstances that cannot be ignored. For too long, the well-being of the youth of this city has been disregarded, bring about still more horrible crimes. Lucia Navar was raised in an environment in which she was forced to fend for herself from the day she was born. This instinct continued to her days in Chicago, where she worked as a prostitute and encountered the sadistic behavior of Senator Bainesworth." He eyed Detective Sarmons as he went on. "The court currently knows of the senator's illicit activities, ranging from hiring prostitutes to first-degree murder. Lucia, knowledgeable of the senator's plans, acted solely in her own defense, as anyone else undoubtedly would have in her place." The judge paused, his eyes resting upon the apprehensive newsgirl. "Therefore, Lucia Navar is acquitted of all charges." His gavel came down with a crack that seemed as loud as thunder.

The newsgirl was so shocked that she could barely hear the amazed cheers of her friends. For a moment, she wondered what strange dream had she stumbled into and when would she wake to cold reality? Then she caught sight of Judge Monahan, who made a small nod to her. The beginning of a smile curled at the corner of her lips, and then the judge disappeared once again into his chambers.

"Well, Monahan has certainly gone off a bit," the new warden commented in surprise as he rose from his chair.

"Certainly," Snyder agreed with scathing sarcasm barely hidden beneath a veneer of complaisance. "Of course, this never happened when I was the warden."

Sarmons heard none of the wardens’ conversation. The only sound in his mind was his own wildly pounding blood. You let a killer walk free, a malicious voice berated like needles tearing at his brain. You call yourself remorseful, willing to do anything to repent. You let her walk away from a vicious murder. The sight of his young wife lying cold on the floor flashed behind his eyelids. Then everything seemed to grow a deep red to the detective as he leapt from his chair and reached into his coat, extracting a small revolver. The metal gleamed dully as he pointed it directly at Shadow's skull.

Fortunately, Specs had instantly caught sight of the detective’s movements. "Shadow!" he screamed frantically, eyes widening at the sight of the insane man clutching the gun.

The newsgirl turned to find herself facing the mouth of the revolver. A wave of fear and reality washed over her as her body automatically threw itself to the side. For a moment, everything seemed to occur in slow motion, as thoughts forked through Shadow's mind like lightning. Who'd've thought Monahan'd let me off like dat...So dis is what it was like for Baineswoith jus' befoah I killed him... Specs called out my name... Dat detective guy is really a nutcase... Funny dat as soon as I get free, I'm killed jus' like Baineswoith.

Then Shadow felt an incredible ripping pain surging through her body. The shrieking congregation of voices seemed to dim, and soon peaceful darkness crept into her mind.

Joseph Philip Sarmons
1859-1900
Rest in Peace

Ya don't gotta blame your behavior on anyone now, she told herself earnestly.

Her mind wandered back to the events that had taken place only a few weeks prior, just after Monahan had declared her innocent. Police later informed newspapers that Sarmons had suddenly gone insane and attacked the newsgirl in a blind rage. Shadow knew better. From the sounds of the gunshot and his wild laughter, she realized that Sarmons hadn't simply snapped; he had always been deeply disturbed, a problem that didn't even begin with her.

He woulda killed me for shoah, she admitted solemnly, if it hadn’t been for Specs. Specs had leapt like a panther at the detective, tackling him to the floor and causing him to lose his aim. I coulda gotten off a lot woise den jus' a hoit arm, she thought as she gazed down at her right arm, only just free of its sling. I can't believe I passed out, that day of all days. And in front of everybody else, no less. What am I gettin' ta be? A tremblin' mouse? She stopped and began to frown at the rest of the story. Specs, along with the bailiff and the warden of the Refuge, pinned Sarmons to the floor.

So stupid, she thought, he coulda been killed.

The newsgirl, who had been told the entire story in detail by a wide-eyed Ivy, imagined what had happened. She could see Specs using the skills he had picked up on the streets to fight against the armed and insane Sarmons. When another gunshot exploded throughout the courtroom, the newsies jumped in fear that their peer had been killed. The newsboy had tossed himself back from the fray, fresh blood smeared across his shirt and his face as white as milk. The newsies' eyes all simultaneously widened at the sight and for a moment the room was consumed in an anxious silence. The next sound was that of the detective's last gasp for air. Specs had remained on the courtroom floor, blinking not at the corpse before him but at his stained shirt.

"I hope da nuns have anuddah one," he murmured unsteadily.

"Specs, ya okay?" Dutchy, moving to his friend’s side, questioned cautiously as though he were faced with an injured animal prepared to fight.

"Yeah...yeah, I t'ink so..." he replied, growing still more pale. He pushed a trembling hand through his unkempt tresses. "He was tryin' ta shoot his way outta it, I guess. Ended up shootin' hisself. Funny, huh?" He began to laugh softly, then rather hysterically.

"Maybe ya need a doctah," the blonde boy remarked as calmly as possible.

Specs shook his head absently, his eyes traveling to the still body of Shadow, surrounded by Ivy, Violet and Crutchy. "No, I'se fine, really...is she okay?"

Shadow chewed at the corner of her lower lip as she considered these events. Her eyes were glazed and fixated upon the gravestone's carved words. Rest in peace...I guess it's da closest t'ing ta peace dat he'll evah get. The words seemed to ripple and she envisioned her own name scrawled across the stone.

What if it was me, if I was six feet undahground by now? I guess I'd've said da same t'ing about me...
Shadow's mind wandered to the night she had spent in the Refuge, as Sarmons demonstrated his deranged desperation for the first time. It's all about trust, she remarked to herself, furrowing her forehead in sober thought. The sight of the detective's eyes flashing anxiously had spoken more clearly to the newsgirl than any available words could have. He couldn't trust his wife and he killed her, maybe even when deah wasn't anyt'ing ta distrust her about. A vision of a young woman lying cold on a carpet was quickly replaced by the memory of Bainesworth's corpse. Even deah, it's about trust. His wife trusted him too much, when he shouldn't've been trusted at all.

"Ya gotta know how ta trust. And when ya find dem, deah can't be da slightest doubt," she murmured so softly that her words were consumed by the faint breeze.

Returning her attention back to the grave, Shadow realized that she was now at the edge of a precipice. Perhaps, with the fighting instincts of a lifetime, things would be far more difficult than anything she had ever experienced. But den again, Shadow thought as a slow smile suffused at the edges of her lips, it could be beddah den anyt'ing else I've known befoah.

Images of the newsies flashed cheerfully inside of her eyelids. So maybe Medda's right. It only took me a night in jail, a trial, and a bullet in my arm to find out.

Several days ago, as the newsies gorged on a breakfast of nearly stale rolls and weak coffee, Pocket had cautiously approached the raven-haired newsgirl. Casting the other newsies anxious looks, she stepped to Shadow's side and squeaked out a poor excuse for small talk.

"Heya, Shadow."

Shadow, who had never been a morning person, glared at her fellow newsgirl through narrowed eyes. "Hey," she muttered noncommittally.

"Nice weadah we'se havin', ain't it?" she remarked, nodding her head as though the other girl had agreed. Before Shadow could say anything in response, concurring or otherwise, Pocket spit out, "So ya really killed dat guy, huh Shadow?"

She blinked at the girl, her frown deepening. "Yeah."

"Well, why? Was he some kinda deranged psycho who was gonna cut you'se head off and wear you'se ribcage as a hat? What made ya do it?"

Although she realized that Pocket was inquiring out of her innate need to know everything about everyone and not simply some sick pleasure, Shadow couldn't resist dropping her voice dramatically low as she replied: "It was because he had da irritatin' habit of askin' too many interferin' questions of people dat didn't feel like givin' him answers."

Pocket's eyes widened to the size of carriage wheels. "Oh," was all she could murmur before she turned swiftly on her heel and marched away.

Shadow shook her head good-naturedly as she thought of the newsies- Ivy and Specs, Jack and Violet, Crutchy and Twink, and even Pocket. She had taken so much effort to cut herself off from them, even when she lived among them and should have known better. And now, when she had no physical enemy to confine her, she knew she would have to raise the protective walls that she had taken such pains to build around her heart.

For a moment, as a real shadow cascaded over the newsgirl's body, it seemed as though the sun had entirely disappeared. She blinked and frowned momentarily, but then a small grin reappeared. Without even glancing backwards, she mumbled, "So, you'se makin' a livin' outta followin' me, or do ya jus' enjoy it?"

"It's da only true joy I got," Specs retorted facetiously as he rolled his eyes towards the startlingly bleu sky. He paused for a moment and his tone softened as he continued, "I t'ought ya might be heah...ya okay?"

She drew a deep breath, the air smelling of freshly cut flowers, horses, and pretzels crystallized with salt. "Yeah," she replied as she lifted herself off of the damp earth and turned to face her friend, "I am."

"Good." He smiled mischievously and adopted a playfully smug expression. "Da crowd for St. Patrick's is great tahday. And I didn't save you'se life jus' ta let ya waste a golden opportunity."

Eyebrow raised critically, Shadow smirked at the newsboy. "So what am I supposed ta do, t'ank ya or somet'ing?" she inquired. Just as Specs was about to sigh and think that some things would never change, Shadow's countenance changed to one of seriousness, caution, and something else he couldn't name.

"Specs?" she asked as her stomach twisted violently. She seemed to have suddenly become fixated on her tattered boots. "I jus' wanted ta...well...see...I wanted ta tell ya..."

On any other occasion, Specs would have piped up with some sarcastic remark. But with the newsgirl, who had always seemed so cool and detached, looking so vulnerable, he found the usual words stuck in his throat. "Yeah?"

Let go...a very distant, but very gentle voice whispered in Shadow's mind. Before another, more vicious voice had the opportunity to response, the newsgirl had gathered every ounce of courage that existed in her soul and flung her arms desperately around her friend's neck.

Specs's eyes widened in shock and for a moment he wondered what odd dream had he stumbled into? He carefully wound his arms around Shadow and had to smile to himself as he mused. Indifferent outsider, immoral whore, merciless killer...Whatever Shadow had been, it really didn.t seem to matter at all now. When they separated, the newsgirl half-smiled self-consciously and absently pushed a lock of dark hair behind her ear. She was still unable to meet Specs's eyes.
"T'anks," she whispered, her voice mingling with the breeze.

A smile spread across his lips as he replied just as quiet, "You'se welcome." He raised his thoughtful eyes to the blue skies that spread like wings over the city. Turning back to his companion, he handed her a stack of papers and nodded towards the cemetery's gated entrance. "Come on, we'd beddah get sellin' befoah da oddahs get all da good customahs."

Shadow met her friend's eyes as she accepted the papers.

For a moment, she recalled that night when she had sobbed in the gutter and felt as though she would drown in her own tears. Staring into Specs's eyes, she felt as though she were drowning again, although another sort of drowning altogether. As the two marched through the cemetery's massive iron gates and were swept away into the sea of pedestrians on the sidewalk, Shadow swore that, for the first time in years, she felt her heart begin to stir.