A/N: This is the first time I've started posting a story without having completed it offline first. It makes me a little nervous, but my goal is to not make y'all wait too long for an ending! Enjoy, and please review!

June 1899

Over the years, Morris had learned to tune out the banter of the newsies downstairs. Every morning as his brother and Wiesel sold the newsies their papers, Morris ran the upstairs office. Not a single copy of The New York World left the building without Morris's approval. He kept track of how many papers were sent out on each wagon to various parts of the city and made sure their profits from the newsies matched those numbers. It was a nice arrangement - he didn't have to interact with the newsies, and he was better at numbers than his brother.

On that particular day, however, Morris kept his window open, listening to the newsies, hoping to hear news of Callie.

"Mornin' Weasel."

"Spot me twenty papes, eh, Weasel?"

"Why so glum, Oscar?"

Then it was the lack of banter that caught Morris's attention more than anything the newsies said. Silence fell over the circulation yard. Morris got up from his desk and walked over to the window to see all the newsies staring at a familiar figure walking through the circulation yard. Morris immediately stepped over to his door and whistled for his errand boy.

"Hey, Spot," said Jack, seeing the Brooklyn leader walk toward him. He spit in his palm.

"Hey Jack. We need to talk." Spot spit in his palm and the two boys shook. Spot cut the line and set his money down to buy his papes just as Morris' errand boy reached Wiesel.

"Sorry, kid," said Wiesel. "You're wanted upstairs before I can give ya your papes."

"What?" Spot asked. He glanced up and saw Morris in the window. Not used to being summoned anywhere, he stayed where he was. "If anyone wants a word with me, they can come to Brooklyn."

"Then that's where you can get your papes too," said Wiesel, pushing Spot's quarter towards him.

Spot stared Wiesel down for a moment before he took his quarter and walked to the side door of the building and yanked it open. The staircase going up was narrow and ended on a landing where the door on his left would take him to the rest of the World building and the door on his right would take him to—

"Morris," Spot said evenly as Morris opened the door.

"Spot," Morris acknowledged, opening the door wider.

Spot walked into the office and looked around before he made himself at home, planting himself in one of the plush chairs in front of Morris's desk.

Morris walked over to his desk where a small pile of week-old newspaper pages sat - all of them folded to display certain articles. He disregarded those on top and picked up the bottom one where a bold headline above the fold read, "Two Men Murdered; Girl Suspected."

"You wanna explain this?" Morris asked.

"Pulitzer's headline writers were on vacation?"

Morris threw down the paper. "You think this is a joke?"

"You know I don't."

"Why was she in Manhattan?"

"She left Brooklyn."

"When?"

Spot nodded his head at the paper. "Probably a couple hours before that happened."

"Why?"

Spot didn't say anything.

"You were supposed to be taking care of her."

"She took down two grown men on her own. She don't need anyone taking care of her."

Morris sighed, skimming the articles he'd read and reread until he'd nearly had them memorized. "Witnesses say that it was an unprovoked attack," he said. "'Blood had flowed out of the alley to the street.' 'The coroner required assistance to remove the knife from bone.' 'The girl in question, one Calliope Stamos, was taken to the Bellevue Pavilion for the Insane to undergo evaluation and treatment before her trial.'" Morris looked up after reading excerpts. "We both know she is not crazy."

"You know how it works, Delancey," said Spot. "For crimes like that, they're all sent to the Bellevue before they're sent to jail, the asylum, or turned back onto the streets."

"She should've been sent to the Refuge, not Bellevue."

Spot watched Morris for a bit. "It ain't like she was caught sleepin' in doorways or stealin' food. She murdered two men. In self-defense, no doubt, but they don't care about that. All they care about is some girl on the street murdered two grown men."

"Why the hell would you let her walk around the Lower East Side alone at night?"

Spot's frown, which had been a permanent fixture on his face since he'd walked in, deepened. He stood up to his full height - which was still several inches shorter than Morris - and stepped forward. "What happens on my turf is my business," he said. "Anywhere else is outta my hands." He turned and walked toward the door.

"So that's it?" asked Morris. "You'll swim the river to Randall's Island to bust out your own fellas, but you're gonna let Callie rot in that place?"

Spot hesitated only a beat before he opened the door and walked out.