Sorry... I own nothing.

Blink and Jack glanced at each other. "His arm?" Jack repeated, confused. "What about 'is arm?"

Blink shrugged. "Ya got me. You know 'im better dan I do."

Jack didn't reply, merely staring at the small Irish boy as Patch continued. "Ma... ma... can'... can'... feel..." Here he went off into a stream of Irish, and eventually trailed off into to silence.

"'Can' feel'?" Jack echoed. "He said he ain't nevah been able ta feel it."

"So again I say, you know 'im better dan I do."

"Yeah, I guess..."

Patch stirred a few times after that, but he didn't say anything. By the time Kloppman came up the stairs at six, Jack had gone back to bed, first making Blink promise to wake him up if Patch said anything again. But Patch was silent.


A few hours later, Patch woke up, but he didn't move or open his eyes. His head was throbbing in a steady tempo, and his entire body felt sore and cramped. Well, his entire body except for his left arm, but that was nothing new... He stopped himself. He was not going to go that way. He was going to forget it. It hurt too much to remember. After all, it had been six years...

He could still remember that day, no matter how hard he tried to forget. His father, his athair, had come home in one of his drunken rages after being out all night. He and his little sister, Nory, had crouched in the corner of the shack that was their home, wishing their athair would fall asleep. Patch, only four, had tried to shield Nory when the man came close to them, but he just shouted something unintelligible and grabbed Patch, no, he was Patrick back then... Well, he had grabbed him by the arm and dragged him away from the corner, yelling curses a the men who had taken his money, his idiotic son who couldn't do anything, and his stupid little girl who looked too much like her spineless mother...

He fumbled around the room, still dragging Patrick, until he came to a knife. It was a fancy knife, with a carved handle (Patch could never remember what that part was called), and a nice, shiny blade that his mother, his máthair, polished every day. Patrick wondered what his athair wanted with it.

But when he picked it up and turned to stare at his son, his meaning became all too clear, even to a four year old. He screamed, then, before the knife even came down, and desperately tried to turn away.

That probably saved his life.

The man had been aiming for Patrick's throat or chest, but because he had turned away, the knife had gone into his left arm. Patch could still feel the blade cutting through his muscles, the baby fat on his arms... His mother had been hiding in another spot, but now, before the drunken man could plunge the knife in a second time, she ran forward and grabbed her son, who was crying and screaming. They didn't live near any other houses, so no one heard them...

Patrick hadn't been able to move for days after that night, and he had barely been able to sit up for more then a few minutes for weeks. Another few months before he could walk around. But he could never use his arm again, and was left with a thick, rope-like scar running from right below his should to just past the inside of his elbow.

When his athair was sober again, and had seen what he had done, he had stopped drinking. He was sick and angry a lot, for a long time, but he beat it. He hadn't stopped gambling, though. One day he lost so much money at the local tavern, he had told them they had to leave. He was too far in debt, and the only way to save his wife and children from starvation was to run away.

They moved from Brooklyn to Manhattan. Not a very far move, to be sure, but for a little five year old with his arm in a sling and a pack on his back, it felt like a million miles.

In a few days they found a cheap apartment building, and his parents got jobs. His mathair got pregnant and had a new baby; a boy named Sean. He had flaming red hair, like his father and sister. Patrick and his mother's was more brown.

Patrick's athair had men over most nights, and they would do something with a bunch of cards and money while Patrick, his arm still in a sling, served them drinks and little bits of food that his mathair scraped together. The other men drank some, they always brought drinks with them, and after a little while Patrick's athair started drinking again. He tried not to, but sometimes he just couldn't keep himself away from it.

One night, when Patrick was nine, his father came home with some of his friends. They drank and gambled and laughed raucously at stupid jokes. Patrick's mother, Nory, and Sean stayed in the back room, but Patrick had to stay out with the men or his father would be angry. That night his athair lost a lot of money, much more than usual. The men were buddies, and told him he could have some time to pay it all off; after all, they had to pay their rent, too. But they told him he would have to pay it back, and that if he didn't, they would make him.

Patrick's athair had to work very hard, but he just couldn't make enough money. His mathair helped as much as she could, and one day his parents told him that he needed to make some money, too, or they would be kicked out of their house. He had seen the newsies, and he decided that would be a fairly easy way to make money. The men were looking for his fathher now, but they kept the door locked at all times. Patrick changed his name to Patch and got rid of his sling. The sling was too easy to spot, and anyone who his father owed money would try to take it from him. And they would probably succeed.

But then something unexpected happened. Patch's athair got fired from his factory job. His mathair got pregnant again and had to quit her job. Patch was the only source of money now. His athair was still drinking.

Just when Patch had made enouh money to pay off a fair amount of his athair's debt, the man took his son's money. To buy more alcohol. Patch was broke.

And now, here he was, lying in bed, unable to help his family.