Once upon a time there was a boy who thought that every story should start with the words "once upon a time." He liked stories that started that way, because it usually meant a place he had never been, and could never hope to go, filled with people he could never hope to meet. Those were the best kind of stories to hear. These stories came from only a few different places-the library, which was out of the way and always felt disapproving of street rats like him, but if he was quiet and wiped his feet before entering, he could find that gold-encrusted book of fairy tales in the corner, and struggle through a couple stories before the evening edition.

They also came from Medda. She had interesting, exotic tales of vaudeville acts, shows, and characters, all "completely true, my dear, would I lie to you?" She welcomed him between shows and engagements, would talk to him where most adults would give him a disdainful look and simply walk away. However, she was busy, and not always… nice. The boy wouldn't want to say anything serious to her. She was for comic relief, and if he really, REALLY needed a meal (or some candy).

For a long time, these were his only source of stories. Of course, he had his friends. They told him about their days, about the people they met, about anything and everything they happened to encounter. However, they didn't have real fairytales. His friends wanted them as much as he did.

One day, when the boy was ten or so, he was walking down the street on his way back to the lodging house, when he heard someone singing. There weren't many people in the city who did random song and dance numbers, aside from the newsies and everyone they met. He was curious. He was fairly certain he and his friends hadn't infected anybody that day. He took a deep breath and walked quietly towards the alley, trying to make sure that he could run without whomever it was learning in the first place. It was a boy-younger than him by a few years, and sitting against the farthest back wall of the alleyway. He was sitting cross-legged and staring up at the sky. He sang quietly and hopefully, a strange little ditty.

Whatever the world says

Whatever they say

You can always find a way

Through anything everything throws at you

If you try, I bet that it'll be okay.

I wish for a pretzel, I wish for a pie, I wish for some bread-rye

I wish for a place to sit that doesn't smell like crap and tears and lies

I wish for a pair of shoes, a haircut, and some thread

I wish I could spend the night in a warm, soft bed

The boy paused, sniffed, and coughed a little.

I'll smile though, and that's the way I hope to go.

Smiling and, most likely, small

As small as I am now, and maybe tonight

I'll leave behind the city streets and lights

Ain't that nice…

The boy trailed off, and leaned back against the brick. Jack could see just enough in the starlight to tell him the little boy really was smiling. His face was wet with tears or sweat, but he was smiling. Jack turned and ran, feeling sick. No kid should be all right with that. Nobody should have to admit defeat like that, especially kids that young. Jack made a quick decision, and began to run faster.

Snoddy, Klopmann, Wool, and Jack came back within the hour. Wool was one of the oldest kids, ready to help anyone. Klopmann came because he had been a war doctor and might know something they could do. Snoddy was strong in limb and in stomach, and Jack knew where to go.

Jack led them into the alleyway where he had seen the boy. It was silent and dark. Klopmann held the lantern high, accomplishing nothing aside from elongating the shadows of the garbage heaps and broken wagon wheels that littered the walls and dusty street.

Snoddy found the boy at the back, and called out

"I think he's asleep…"

Jack knew what that could mean. He trotted over with the others, and looked closely at him in the lantern light as Klopmann bent over him. The young boy was pale and slightly freckled, with hollow cheeks and dark circles under his eyes. His hair was to matted to tell the color of in this light… and it didn't take Jack more then a moment to realize that it wasn't with dirt. His clothes hung off him, and he wasn't waking up as Klopmann rolled him over. The older man gasped. The back of the boy's leg had a huge gash running from his upper thigh to his ankle. It was bent at a slightly unnatural angle, and Wool moaned looking at it. Klopmann patted him on the back, and asked for bandages. He wrapped the boy's thin leg tightly, and then lifted him gently over his shoulder. The whole group proceeded slowly back to the lodging house.

Most of the boys tried to come over and see what Klopmann was carrying in, but Wool and Jack both prevented the others from crowding the boy. The free bed in the corner was cleared of the shoes and various articles of clothing that the other boys had been using it to hold, and the new boy was lowered into it. Klopmann cut away the bandages, and preceded to clean up the wound as best he could. He also cleaned the boy's face, brushing his hair over the bandages concealing the cut across his forehead. Jack and Wool stood behind the old man as he worked.

"Kloppy? Why are ya cleanin' his face?"

"Boys, one thing I learned in the army: people would rather die looking decent."

The next morning, the boy still hadn't woken, but he was breathing deeper than the night before, and his face had a little color. Jack kept thinking about him as he sold that day. He wanted to know what happened with this boy. He talked about it with Racetrack as they walked

"What do you think happened, Race?"

The shorter boy put his cigar in his mouth and tried to look threatening.

"His old man got annoyed wit' him or his ma, an' he was holding a knife. It happens all the time. When I were real small-"

Jack laughed.

"Shut your trap, Jacky. When I were real young, there was dis drunk that lived in the tenement above ours. He came home later than usual one night and his missus had fed his dinner to the kids. Got tired of waitin' for him. He killed the kids. All four of 'em. He regretted it later, of course, but his wife hung herself in grief. He did too, a coupla weeks later."

"That's nice, Race. Real nice story," Jack said sarcastically as a women behind them gasped, affronted.

" Hey, you asked."

Skittery was walking behind them, and he sighed dramatically and rolled his eyes.

"Ya nitwits. He did it on purpose. Didn't Jack say he were being all creepy and singin' about death?"

"He was singin' about how much he wanted a pretzel, Skitts. You're always assuming the worst."

Skittery growled.

Racetrack snorted, then pointed at Jack with his cigar

" What do you think, Jack?"

"I think you'd have to ask him. How should I know?"

"You might never get the chance," suggested Skittery darkly, turning the corner and leaving the two others alone.

"Old glum an' dumb."

Race too walked off, leaving Jack alone with his thoughts.

Jack finished selling pretty early, and made his way as fast as he could back to the lodging house. When he got there, Klopmann wasn't at the desk. Jack stood in the doorway for a minute, and then walked upstairs. Nobody was there, as far as he could see. He took a step further in, and heard a crash. He ran to the back of the bunkroom, and was slightly surprised to see the boy splayed on the floor. As he watched, he boy rolled over onto his back and sat up, looking worried, then mortified as he saw Jack. He tried to hop up, but only succeeded falling over again.

Jack offered his hand. The boy considered, then took it. Jack pulled him up and pushed him into a sitting position on the bed. Jack stood there awkwardly.

"So, um… can ya talk?"

The boy smiled a gap-toothed smile.

"Yup. I can talk with the best of 'em!"

"Okay, kid. What's your name?"

The smile faded.

"Ummm… Ian Morris. I think."

"You think?"

"Well, I'm pretty sure."

"What happened to you?"

The boy looked worried, and shook his head.

"Don't remember."

"You don't have to talk about it right now, but you should tell Klopmann."

Ian looked like he might cry.

"I really don't remember!" Ian tried to stand up again, and Jack pulled his arm over his shoulder, taking half his weight.

"Where to?" Ian bit his lip, looking embarrassed.

"Do you have any… food?"

Jack thought. He helped Ian over to Blink's bed, and looked under the pillowcase where he knew he always kept a roll.

"Here,"

Ian looked like he was going to question it for a second, but the sight of food proved to powerful. He grabbed it devoured it like it was going to run away from him the first chance it got. Jack resolved to get Blink a new one tomorrow.

"So, Ian…"

Ian looked at Jack, crumbs all over his face.

"You're in a newsboys lodging house. Klopmann, the guy who runs it, he's real nice, and he won't kick you out, not for a long time, but rest of us pay six cents a night. We all sell papers for a livin'. It ain't easy, but I think you could do just fine."

Ian wiped his face and nodded.

"Yeah. I wanna pay for my own bed an' everythin'."

They sat on the bed for a minute.

"How old are ya, kid. You know?"

"Nearin' eight."

"Anyone asks, you're still seven. Younger sells more."

Ian nodded eagerly.

"Cool it kid. You ain't leaving the lodging house for a bit yet."

"But I'm fine!"

Jack shrugged Ian's arm of him and nudged him behind the knee, watching as the younger boy yelped and fell forward.

"You ain't. Now, I'll get the tub an' you can clean yourself up."