Author's note:

This is my first story, and it's a long one. This is partly due to the fact that I felt the incredible need to write many of the scenes twice-once from Katja's perspective and once from Spot's. They each have their own scenes, of course, but there is also a lot of repetition. This was an exercise for me as much as anything. Feel free to give feedback on the formatting, though I doubt I will change it-again, the process is important to me, and I had to get it out of my system that way. Sometimes you have to jump way back when events start coming too quickly to separate the characters out. I am open to constructive criticism, particularly in the early chapters. I am not sure I have the characters working well right out of the gate.

The chapter name will tell you who is speaking, though I tried to write it so you wouldn't need that crutch.

I am okay if nobody ever reads this, by the way.

"Katja, Liebling," my father called out to me. I was sitting on the bench near a miniature park in in Brooklyn's business district. It was a favorite haunt of cabbies between fares thanks to the trough for watering horses nearby. My father smiled as he brought his cab to a halt, set the brake, and came over to give me a hug.

"To what do I owe this pleasure?" He smiled as I handed him a meal. This was our ritual; every day I would bring him a meal in the early afternoon, check in with him, and take care of the horse while he took a break and ate his dinner. Papa was a stickler about the horse. City horses have a hard life, and they don't last long; they are also expensive to purchase. Since his delivery and cab service was our family's primary source of income, it was critical that we kept this horse healthy. Mama's work as a seamstress supplemented us enough that we could afford a small apartment—really just a pair of rooms with a small fire escape—and decent, if not exactly luxurious meals. It also meant I was able to attend school.

"Just eat your Wurst before it gets cold," I smiled as I turned to water and feed Maus. As I removed the bit from her mouth and attached the nosebag with the feed, I heard Papa sigh as he sat down on the bench. I looked around and saw him stretching and trying to settle into a comfortable position. He had stumbled on the stairs last week, and his back had ached a bit since then. He was healing well and was still able to work, but I knew this break was important to him.

"I can get you the newspaper, Papa," I offered. Papa always said that reading the paper was important, and he always bought one to read during this break. We would share it and discuss the articles inside, enjoying each other's company as well as the quality conversation. I grabbed a penny from him and headed over to the newsboy that was always there.

"One, please," I murmured, keeping my eyes cast down. Talking to people makes me nervous, especially when they are strangers. The boy, who looked to be about my age or a bit older, turned around and handed me a newspaper. As I handed him the penny he touched his black cane to his grey cap and wished me a nice day. I think he smiled, but I was too focused on my shoes to look at his face. I turned back toward Papa and Maus, skimming the headlines as I walked.

"Excuse me, miss?" a voice interrupted my thoughts. I turned around and saw the newsboy just two feet away. I must have looked a bit startled because he immediately backed up a pace and held up his hand. "Sorry to bother ya, but you handed me a dime. Here's ya change." I blushed furiously as he held out a few coins to me.

"Thank you," I mumbled, taking the coins quickly and turning once again to Papa, who had witnessed the exchange.

"Young man," he called out to the newsboy, who was about to walk the other direction.

"Yes, sir?"

"Thank you for your honesty. I know most newsboys are in the habit of keeping the change, particularly if the mistake goes unnoticed," Papa said, his eyes bright with curiosity and approval.

"Sir, youse been a faithful customer for two years now. And I always take care of me own, especially the ones who deserves it," the newsboy answered with a grin.

"A true businessman. Well, I thank you Mr. . . . . "

"Conlon. But youse can call me Spot," he smiled as he touched his cap again.

"Alfred Fischer," Papa replied with a grin, "and my Katja. I wish you a good day of selling, Spot. Thank you again."

Spot smiled as he turned around and headed down the road selling the last of his papers.

"Really, Katja, you must not be so shy," Papa admonished as I sat down with the newspaper. "He was perfectly gentlemanly and deserved more than a mumble from you; remember, he is likely not as well off as we are, and those few cents may mean far more to him than they do even to us. You must always remember to treat everyone as your equal; no more, no less."

"Yes, Papa," I said, smiling back at him. He wasn't angry—just teaching me. That's how we were. We turned to the news and our meal, making the most of the time together.