A/N: Errors fixed! I do not own Newsies, obviously, or the song whose name I regret to say I cannot remember. I wrote this a while ago and may write the other parts when I have time. R&R.

Francis lay on his bunk in the prison cell, staring up at the ceiling above him. The other boys snored loudly, voiding any hope of falling asleep soon. He wished for the stars; the few stars visible in the Manhattan sky, or a cool breeze across his face. The small space reserved for boy's petty crimes was stuffy and hot, causing him to sweat and the cot on which he lay was hard and lumpy.

Summer stinks, he thought.

He rolled over onto his side and placed a pillow over his head, trying to find a more comfortable position with no luck. Frustrated, he pulled the pillow off of his head and sighed. Then he heard it.

A soft singing, slightly muffled by the wall beside him, was coming from the next room over. He gathered that it was a girl's voice, as it was singing very high notes in a language he did not understand.

A orillas del Zamora tan bello
De verdes saucedales tranquilos,
Campiña de mi tierra risueña,
Casita de mis padres, mi amor;

Tristeza del recuerdo me mata,
Casita de mis padres, mi amor,
A orillas del Zamora
Cómo te añora mi corazón...

He listened, enchanted by the melody as it washed over him.

Sino cruel, hoy en extraños lares
Bogo en los mares de la aflicción,
Sino cruel, entre las recias olas
Gimiendo a solas va mi dolor.

¡Oh dolor!, en dónde está la madre,
la buena anciana toda dulzor,
¡Oh dolor!, en dónde está el encanto
de mi ferviente y primer amor.

He could feel the anguish in the singer's voice and as the song ended, his curiosity got the better of him and he called out to her.

"Youse 'ave a beautiful voice," he whispered, trying to be heard yet praying that none of the guards were listening.

Silence met his words for a moment before she answered in a thick Spanish accent, "Thank you."

Suddenly, the sleepless night did not seem so bad; he was not alone. "Why would a poison wit' a beautiful voice such as youself be locked up in a place like dis one?"

"Hunger. I stole a bushel of apples."

Francis laughed softly, "An 'ole bushel? Whyse not just one?"

"Because if I steal one apple, I have to steal again. I steal the whole bushel; I not have to go back for long time."

"Sometimes it be safer to nick one apple, not forty."

The girl laughed. "I'll remember that next time. Why are you here?"

"Aww, I'se soaked some rich kid."

The girl hesitated. "What is this—soaked?"

"Umm...hurt badly? I pretty much pounded him into the ground."

"You don't sound very sorry about it."

"I'se not. He deserved it. He was punching up a bunch o' newsies."

"Your what?"

"Kids that sell the papes. They're kinda small, so I'se helped 'em out."

"That was kind of you. So what's ya name?"

"Francis Sullivan. You?"

A guard pounded on the door. "Youse kids shut up in there!"

Francis laughed before rolling over. "Good night," he whispered a few minutes later.

"Good night," she answered.

For the next few days, they talked every night. One night the girl told him about the place she was from.

"It's simply beautiful; it's a desert with cacti, but it's a wide open space, and you can see the stars. The wind blows over your face, and you feel at home. Cattle are the main form of living; the cowboys rustle them up and lead them places, the women make beautiful trinkets, and the little boys ride horses everywhere. It's amazing. Near my house in Santa Fe, there is a little river that flows, and you can go swimming every day. During the winter, it rarely snows, but when it does, it is the most beautiful thing you would ever see. Everything is clean and green and wonderful.

"Madre and Padre make the best food, too; and we work all day long, herding sheep, planting vegetables. It is a lot of work, but I love it. Sara, my sister, prefers to go to town nearly every day; she has a sweetheart there who is always giving her little trinkets."

"Have youse eva 'ad a sweetheart?"

Chuckling, she answered, "No, I stay at the ranchero most of the time. The boys who are my age in Santa Fe spend all their time in the hills."

"Do youse plan to go back there someday?"

"Yes, I was planning on taking my bushel of apples and hitching a ride in a boxcar."

Francis laughed. "I hope you make it back to Santa Fe."

"I will; but not in the style I want to. In three days, I'm going to be released; my term is up and then they're shipping me back to Santa Fe."

His face fell. "You're leaving so soon?"

"Yes; I don't have a life sentence, you know."

Chuckling, Francis sighed. "Ise guess so, but me term don't end 'til next month."

All day long, Francis dreamed of Santa Fe, just the way the girl had described it to him. It was just the medicine he needed to keep his spirits up. Just one more month, and he would follow her to Santa Fe. Night fell, and he could not wait to talk to her about his plan.

"So, do youse think I'd make it in a place like Santa Fe?"

The girl chuckled softly, "Maybe; I haven't seen you. You sound smart enough."

"I tell youse what, I'm gonna meet ya in Santa Fe when I get me enough money, and I'll bring you bushels and bushels of apples!"

"Try not to get thrown into prison when you get those apples; it'll be a long wait."

"Then you'll just 'ave ta wait for me."

"I will."

"Have ya hoid the rumors that Teddy Roosevelt is coming to visit the prison in a week?"

The girl smiled. "Who hasn't? The girls talk of nothing else."

"Wouldn't it be great to meet 'im?"

"Yeah, but why would he visit a bunch of petty criminals?"

"I dunno," came the reply. "I bet if you were here, he'd see you and you'd ride out on his carriage in true style!"

"You don't even know what I look like!"

"That don't matter, I bet youse the most beautiful goil in all o' the state o' New Yawk."

"What if you were the one to ride out on his carriage? You've got brains, and you're a leader!"

"Maybe I can just sneak on."

"If you got caught, you'd be stuck here for life!"

Silence fell among the twosome.

"How old are you?" Francis asked suddenly.

"Sixteen; you?"

"Nearly seventeen. Isn't it odd that youse're leaving tomorra and I still don't know yer name?"

"Yes, I guess so; it's—"

The answer was muffled; Francis could not hear. "What was that?"

The guard banged on the doors, "Shut up you!"

Disappointed, the two friends turned away from their wall and tried to fall asleep, knowing full well that they may never talk again.

The next day dawned bright and early, but Francis's heart was down. He was losing his one friend in the sanctuary, and he still had a month to go. He watched the door, determined not to miss her as she walked out to freedom. Time ticked by slowly, and finally the bell rang. He plastered his face up against the bars of the boys' cell to catch a glimpse of his friend.

The guard bellowed into the room but Francis could not understand.

Francis heard shuffling, a door unlocking, and someone being dragged through a threshold. Then his breath caught in his throat as he saw her.

Her head was high with what little dignity she still had, her cinnamon skin glowing in the dimness of the corridor. Her dark hair poured from her head, secured below a cowboy hat that dangled from her neck. As she passed, he distinctly saw her black eyes flicker over his face as she smiled a secret smile. She knew it was him.

Sighing, Francis tore his face away from the bars as she disappeared from view. She was gone; he was determined to follow when he got a chance.