Cocky's POV:

I was staring out the (barred) window of the room both Crutchy and I had been sentenced to. Along with (I believe I mentioned) Snitch.

The were only two other girls in there, so I concluded that there were so few girls taken there that Snyder did not even bother to separate the girls from the boys.

Nails (the nasty one) and Cat (the nice one) and I shared a bunk. Nails slept on top (because neither Cat nor I were inclined to share with her) and Cat and I on the bottom.

As for the bed itself- the frame of the bed was wood, and creaked when anyone sat on it, no matter how light, and threatened to break. As for the mattress- well, there was none. Just a board and a thin blanket. However, it was summer, so it didn't really matter.

What did matter was that it was absulutely sweltering in there. I mean - imagine the hottest summer day you've ever experienced. Then imagine having to stay in a room all day without air conditioning or even a fan, with hot, sweaty people and it stinks and it's the Refuge to boot.

But what's so bad about the Refuge? You ask. Why is everyone afraid to go there? In one little word, ladies and gentlemen, I will tell you why: Crips. You know those people that the big shots of the city hire to kill innocent kids so that they don't get their nice waistcoats dirty? They're called Crips. Because they cripple you. Body, mind, and spirit.

That wasn't all. Snyder wasn't about to let all that "energy" go to waste. He put us to work at different jobs, each one leaving us tired and sick and miserable at the end of each long day. And, you see, the Crips are hired to make sure we do the chore we are assigned to.

The Crips are worse than the bulls, because, since they are being paid to do this, and since they are just street people, they have no sense of justice. They decide they will get as much fun out of it as they can manage, so they just hurt us at random, even if we're doing a perfectly good job at what we're doing.

They'll come into a room, holding whips, chains, brass knuckles, and the like, each day, ready to use them.

Every kid in there, no matter how brave, cringes when the hear the heavy "stomp, stomp, stomp" and the clanking of chains, and the snapping of whips. It's terrifying. It hurts. And they use filthy language while they're doing it. They call us unrepeatable names, and there's a different name for each time those detestable whips or chains or brass knuckles descend.

And what made it worse- the kids in there weren't exactly of the highest class, some particular boys especially.

I was put to work sewing shirts. I, even to this day, shudder every time I have to sew a shirt or the like; it reminds me too strongly of that awful time I had to spend making my eyes red sewing all those shirts.

With every passing hour I planned my escape. Which would not be an easy one.

Torch's POV:

Racetrack and I reached the Refuge, and I stared up at it, shuddering in spite of myself. Racetrack looked at me curiously, but, thank goodness, held his tognue.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a figure in the shadows moving. "Race, quick! Hide! Or run! Or something!" Racetrack chose to run. He bolted like a mad horse.

I carefully made my way, very cautiously, over to where I had seen the shape. After all, I didn't want to look like a coward, rushing away from, say, just a stray cat!

So I looked at the place where I had seen the form (it was behind a barrel)- and let out a long, loud sigh. Partly of relief, partly of annoyance.

For there, large as life and twice as natural, was David Jacobs.

I sighed again and called in a stage whisper, "Race! Come back! It's only a stray!"

I turned back to David with an unmistakable smirk on my face which I had stolen from my (adopted) brother Spot. Then I proceeded to inquire, "What are you doing here?"

He smiled confidently and said, "I just wanted to congratulate you!"

"On what?" I eyed him suspiciously.

"Oh nothing." He said hastily. Then, "What are we going to do next?"

"We?" I raised one eyebrow, something I'd been working on, and was quite my masterpiece, "We?" Oh no, there's no we my dear fellow."

"But- but-" he faltered, for once at a loss for words.

"But nothing." I said curtly; he was making me extremely nervous. "Racetrack and I are going to get Cocky out of the Refuge. Period. You have nothing to do with it."

By this time, Race had crept cautiously back, apparently either concerned about me or simply determined to get this Cocky person out. I hoped it was the latter: as I've said before, I'm not the wearing-skirts type, if you know what I mean.

However, when I turned back to concentrate on figuring out how to get her down (she was imprisoned in the top part, we found) David stayed with us, evidently set on helping us.

I shrugged and said, "Suit yourself."

Then a twinkle appeared in my eye as a plan presented itself to me.

This was going to be fun.