Racetrack, Race, Higgens groaned as the cold bit at his body. His thin blanket was on the ground, his legs covered in goosebumps. "For the love of," he started reaching down to the floor for his blanket. Race stopped, listening to the sounds around him. The boys were still asleep in the room, their breathing relaxing him.

Unable to find his blanket, Race curled in on himself. He had been feeling a little under the weather the last couple days, so losing his blanket was one of the worst things that could happen. A shiver shuddered through his body, a gasp escaping his as his stomach hurt.

"Race?" Specs whispered, poking his head down from the top bunk. His silhouette could be seen in the dark, his hair bouncing. "You okay?"

"Mhhm, yeah." Race muttered, flinching as Specs jumped out from his bunk. They both froze, making sure no one else had woken up before returning to their conversation. "What was dat about?"

"Yous sound like crap." Specs replied, tossing the blanket over his cold friend. The October air was filling The Lodging House, everyone beginning to rely the worn blankets, or each other, for warmth. "You feelings alright?"

"I'm 'ine, Specs. Go 'ack ta sleep." Race persisted, pulling the blanket over his face. He positioned a hole in the cloth over his mouth, breathing in the cool air. A hand was placed by his head, pulling the blanket back enough so Specs could feel Race's forehead.

"Yous burnin' up." Specs exclaimed, being shushed by an increasingly aggravated Race. His silhouette moved in the dark, his clothes rustling on his body.

"You wanna wakes them all?" He whispered, keeping his back turned toward his friend. "Go ta sleep. I'll sleep it off, yous'll see."

"Yeah, Is'll see." Specs groaned, the bed shaking as he returned to his top bunk. "Night, Race."

"Night."

When morning came, Race wasn't feeling any better. His body ached, his throat felt like he had swallowed a knife. His stomach rumbled with hunger, but also lurched with pain. Slowing pulling himself up, he pulled the torn boots onto his feet.

Specs stood in the corner, an eyebrow raised at his friend. "Get back inta bed." Specs spoke up, finishing the laces on his own shoes. Race audibly sighed, a small cough erupting in his throat.

"I gotta sell papes." Race stated, not wanting to go into detail. He pushed his slightly curled hair back, positioning his hat on his head. Fingers shaking, he opened a small trunk by his bed. "Ah, this is a beauty." Race grinned, pulling a threaded jacket from the trunk.

"Dat old thing?" Specs asked, pointing a figure at the tattered jacket. "Is a bunch of strings!"

"Dis is ta only thing dat kept me from freezing o'er de years!" Race exclaimed, his voice cracking with every word. Specs rolled his eyes, taking a few steps towards his close friend.

"I'm not gonna say it again, get back in bed." Specs persisted, motioning towards the bottom bunch. Race responded by rolling his eyes, pulling what was left of the small jacket around his body.

"We's got papes to sell. Jack's prob'aly wondering where we's are." Race said, running out the door before Specs could protest. His whole body ached with each step, his balance off, but he kept going down the stairs.

Race still had half his papers left when the world went to hell. He had given into his body and the sharp pains he felt. The brick wall he sat against was freezing, his pants barely reaching his ankles. "Early frost! In city gardens should hurry-" He mustered out before a coughing fit erupted in his chest.

His whole body shook, tears brimming his eyes as his stomach tightened. "Dis sucks." Race sighed, clutching his arms across his chest for an attempt at warmth. "Gotta get 'ome." He told himself, trying to motivate himself to stand and go back to the Lodging House.

"What was dat?" A familiar, cruel, voice broke through the cold air. Morris Delancey sauntered up behind the sick boy, his foot colliding with the newsies' ribs.

Another coughing fit broke out in Race's body as he laid on his back, his head hitting the ground with each cough. "Please," He began, only to stop when the Delancey's foot collided with his ribcage once again.

"You're lucky I can't stay around for long, kid. Real lucky." Morris grumbled, getting a few stronger kicks in before continuing his way.

"Why." Race stated, blood sputtering from his lips. He tried to sit up, but his ribs screamed in protest. "Someone!" He called, his voice cracking in pain. It was a weak attempt, but it was worth a shot.

Minutes passed before a newsie managed to pass by. It was Crutchie, who was on his way home to the Lodging House. "Race! What'd ya do? You's looks like crap."

"Yeah, 'tanks." Race sighed, tears involuntarily running down his face as he coughed. His sides felt like they were splitting open, the additional pain from his illness plaguing his stomach.

"Imma getcha Jack, wait 'ere." Crutchie frantically spoke, hobbling away as fast as he could in the direction of the street Jack usually sells on. It felt like hours passed when it was only minutes, but eventually Race was in Jack's arms.

His brain swam in and out of consciousness as he was carried home, pain consuming his body. He thought he was coughing, but he couldn't be sure. The last memory Race had was the Lodging House doors.

When Race woke up again, the room was lit by candles. Bandages were wrapped tightly around his chest, two blankets covering his body. A lukewarm cloth was on his forehead, his vision blurry as he tried to wake up.

"I told ya yous shoulda stayed in 'ed." Specs's voice broke the silence in his head. Race sighed, closing his eyes again, beginning to drift off.

"Yeah, yeah." He sighed, returning to sleep with a small smile on his face. Specs chuckled, happy his friend was okay, despite the cracked ribs.