Eh, eh, random 'Newsies' drabble. Don't shoot me. Although you probably won't because you're reading it, aren't you? Obviously, I don't own 'Newsies'. Or Jack (that would be lovely). I'm not sure I even own the concept of him leaving New York, but I do own my take on it.

Jack lay back comfortably and let the train take him away.

Or rather, he felt his whole being will the train forward. He felt the wheels move underneath him and knew that this was what he needed to do. The whole newsie thing was done. Sure, being a newsie would always be a part of him, just like his arms and his brain and his name, but he was ready to move on.

Tiredness practically dripped off his body like melting snow. He'd seen four more winters since the strike. Twenty-one was a ripe old age for any working boy in the city- practically a man, though- and Jack really didn't know where he could go from there. Most people were dead by nineteen. Jack had just had the fortune (maybe the misfortune) of beating the odds. Beating the odds had also always been a big part of Jack Kelly, and he thought that was being proved now as he sat in a scratchy seat in a drafty compartment rolling towards Santa Fe.

Santa Fe. His dream, finally! How long had he spent dreaming of it? How long had he been thumbing through that grimy penny serial, seeing himself in the shoes of every cowboy hero? Far too long. It was time for him to make his own story. Maybe not headlines: he'd had enough of headlines. Just a story.

His imagination flew, being the dreamer that he was. Murky dusk sky grey-flecked with cloud grew into snowy night. Jack didn't know what awaited him in Santa Fe. A pretty, nice girl, maybe? A nice ranch. First thing he did he was going to save up money for a horse. Then maybe a good chunk of land for her to roam on. He could make an honest living, he just knew it. He could be his own man and sell his own product. Answer only to himself. That sounded good. It didn't really matter what was going to happen in Santa Fe, as long as something happened, because Jack had been waiting for forever for something to happen like this. Not that things hadn't happened in Brooklyn- things happened, all right- but something he chose. Not a strike. Not holding the newsies together or protecting his friends. He'd do all that over again if he had to; Jack loved his friends.

He loved space just as much, though. Even in Central Park he'd barely tasted it. Here in the smooth, sea-like plains there was everything to see, everything laid out in front of him for him to explore and feel.

Right now he only felt the bumps of the train underneath him, lulling him to sleep like a long-forgotten rock of a mother's arms that Francis Sullivan might have felt once.

There was no Francis Sullivan on the train. Jack Kelly dreams, however, of sunset rides on a fast-trotting horse across hills of his own on a path of his own. In his mind, he feels the arms of someone who needs him to stay with her in their little home and tastes the openness of the whole thing. He's practically running towards it in his head. The train takes him away as he sleeps, carrying him, bringing him to the space.

Thanks for reading!