The betrayal of Jack Kelly had sent many of the striking newsies over the edge. Some fell into a depression, losing hope the moment they saw their leader clothed in lies and his pockets lined with money. Others turned to more violent means, taking their rage out on the nearest scab.

Betts didn't have the connections that Jack Kelly did. He didn't have the fine suit or the pocket full of money. He certainly didn't have the battery of policeman surrounding him as he made his way through the crowded streets of Lower Manhattan.

"Scab!"

Betts didn't even bother looking up anymore. The name-calling, the abuse was an everyday thing. It had been at least a week since Jack Kelly had shown up among the ranks of the 'scabs' and things had only gone from bad to worse. Betts had seen more than one of his friends switch sides when faced with the prospect of being beaten or worse by the newsies on strike.

"Whatsa matter, scab? Cat got your tongue? Or you just ain't allowed to talk without permission from Pulitzer?"

Betts felt his hands curl into fists in spite of his better judgement. He wasn't normally a violent person but you could only push a person so far. What was so hard for the newsies to understand? Maybe they didn't have families. Maybe they couldn't understand what it was like to return home to squalor and sickness and know that people were depending on those few pennies each day.

"I don't want to fight," Betts admitted in a tired voice. He relaxed his hands and looked placidly at the dark-haired newsie standing in front of him. It was almost like looking in a mirror. The same desperation and frustration that Betts felt was mirrored in the face of the boy across from him.

"You don't wanna fight," the boy jeered. "Guess you really is a pansy, then. All you scabs is pansies."

Betts stepped back away as the boy grabbed at Betts' papers. "Look, I don't want no trouble."

"Too late for that, scab."

Three more boys joined the first and Betts understood that he would be returning to the distribution center that afternoon owing even more money. He tried to hold his own but soon found himself on the ground, curled up into himself as blows rained down. His papers were torn into shreds and pieces stuck to his hair and clothing. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth and he felt his jaw swelling as the boys seemed to believe enough damage had been done and ran off to find their next victim.

His chest felt as if it was on fire and every breath was painful as Betts surveyed the damage done. A set of hands pulled him up from behind and he turned to see the infamous Jack Kelly.

"Don't need your help," Betts said pointedly. "So why don't you run along back behind your goon squad?"

The older boy didn't even flinch. "That's fair."

"Nothing about this is fair," Betts muttered.

Jack seemed to hesitate as he looked at Betts. "Wanna tell me why you're here?"

"You wanna know my sob story?" Betts asked ruefully. "I ain't got one. I also ain't got time to shoot the shit."

Betts felt slight remorse as he saw the look on Jack's face. Betts kicked at the scraps of paper along the ground. "Must be nice having Pulitzer pay your way."

"It ain't," Jack admitted.

"I just got a sick sister, okay?" Betts said. "It ain't a good reason but she's all I got. So I couldn't join the strike 'cause then she'd have nothing."

"Okay," Jack told him with his hands raised in mock surrender.

"This ain't just about newsies for me. It's more than that," Betts explained.

"We all gotta make choices," Jack told him. "And you're right. It ain't always just about one person."