I own nothing.
Kya was walking down a street in Manhattan. She could see Jack Kelly, she was only about fifteen or twenty feet away. When was he going to notice her? She was getting tired of her charade.
Take a step... Pause... 'Nudder step... And now, stagger sideways... Hand on the wall... she instructed herself. At least it was winter; they were halfway through November. That would make her so much more believable. Other hand on your forehead... Bring it down slowly... Cough loudly... Not that much, you don't want to sound like you're dying...
Finally, Kelly seemed to hear her. She was only about ten feet away now, and coughing loud enough to wake the dead. He saw her thin shoulders shaking with coughs, and he took a few uncertain steps toward her. Now, she thought, for the grand finale.
Her "coughing fit" slowly subsided, and she took a slow step forward, careful to look scared and cautious. However, as soon as her hand left the wall, she "stumbled", landing heavily on her knees. She placed a hand on the rough brick wall again, putting on a show of trying to stand. Kelly was definetely heading in her direction now, alarm showing clearly on his face. She knew that at least one little Brooklyn "bird" was sitting up on a roof somewhere, snickering up their sleeve.
She "coughed" again, then leaned against the wall, apparently too tired to attempt standing again. Besides, she had landed very heavily, because there were some things she just couldn't fake, and her knees hurt. She wrapped her arms pathetically around her shivering self, closing her eyes. She really was cold, for she had deliberately left her jacket back in Brooklyn. However, she acted colder than she was, for she knew that she had to look frail and delicate.
She sensed him standing right in front of her, and she fought the urge to look up at him. Come on, you're near death, remember? You've been out in the cold without food for days now, coughing the whole time. Your cruel father kicked you out of the house after your mother died, and you don't know where to go, and you don't want to accept help, but maybe just this once...
Jack squatted down next to her. "Hey," he said softly. "Ya awright?"
When she looked up at him, she knew that all he saw was a thin, sickly girl, with long, thick black hair and bright blue eyes, apparently clouded with pain and fear.
"Y-yes," she replied weakly, fighting the urge to laugh. He just looked so innocent. This was going to be so easy. "I-i fi-" her thin, sad voice was interupted by another "coughing spell".
"Ya don' look awright," Jack said slowly, placing a hand gently on her shoulder. "Ta be honsest, ya look half-dead." Of course she did. She had stayed up all night so that she would have circles under her eyes, and she had aalso stayed inside for a day or two, to make her already pale skin become even lighter. And then, of course, there was her barefeet, which were really starting to bother her, and her non-existant jacket.
"No, really," she whispered hoarsely. "Ise o...kay..." Even as she spoke, she she allowed her eyelids to close slowly, and then she slumped pathetically forward, apparently unconscious. She heard wild hoots of laughter, probably from one of the Brooklynites, but she ignores it and ade herself go limp.
Jack caught her, and lifted her carefully up. She desperately wanted to get out of his arms and run way as fast as she could, but that was not quite possible without ruining her plans and Spot's prank. So she allowed him to carry her to the Lodging House, cradled in his arms.