note: Thanks again to Falco for reading through and listening to my worries/complaints/ideas. And... oh man. Two left, and it's summer, so they'll be here soon. AHH.

twenty-six: cure.

My steps grew slower and slower and I wished desperately for a railing to hold onto. The blackness was beginning to fade, but my vision was still blurry, and I felt lightheaded and dizzy. My knees trembled as I felt for the next stair, only to come up short and realize that I was already on level ground. I could hear Dutch taking deep breaths somewhere nearby. I crouched down and rubbed at my eyes, willing my body to recover.

"You okay?" I croaked out.

"Fine," he said. "You?"

"Alright." I straightened and looked around. I knew where we were. We didn't have any time to lose. "Let's go," I said to Dutchy. "Can you make it?"

He didn't answer, just fell into step beside me. That feeling, that sickness from crossing over too soon, it lingered, but it wasn't as bad as before; it wasn't debilitating. We'd at least had a little time to rest, and now we were back for good, so we just had to take it in stride and trust that there would be recovery time later. Dutchy was pale, and I was sweating, but we were near the end of our mission, and it was going to take a lot more than an upset stomach to keep me from the Lodging House.

We rushed, half running, toward home. We looked like shit; that was obvious. We looked dangerous. We were pushed on by a strange mixture of excitement and anxiety, wanting to finish our job but dreading going back into the real world, where we would be attacked with questions and accusations from all sides. I think that maybe I was only worried about our coming reception at the Lodging House because it kept me from thinking about the real problem at hand, about Specs. Part of me wanted to think that I would know if Specs was gone, that Dutchy would know, or even Sofia. But even that hope was shadowed by a grim acceptance of the fact that if nothing had gone right from the start – why would this?

I was preparing myself for failure, for being an hour too late, or three days behind. We had saved Sofia without any blood and we had created the Cure from scratch. We had convinced Spot Conlon to give up his ace of spades, and all this in the name of Love. Well, that's how it looked on the outside, at least. But there were so many other things going on underneath the surface. It made me glad to be on the Other side again, because I figured that any role I'd played in the games of all those people – Spot, Iceman, Pete – was over and done with. We'd escaped from Swifty's house and crossed over without being chased or followed, at least not now. But that was no reason to let up, it was no reason to go any slower than we would have, had Brooklyn himself been on our tail.

There was only one point when I had my misgivings. We were waiting to cross a busy corner about six blocks from the Lodging House when I felt all the hair on the back of my neck stand up and a shiver work its way down my spine. I resisted the urge to look around, just figuring I was on edge and imagining things. That was a mistake, but I didn't realize it at the time, and the whole thing soon disappeared from my thoughts.

It was Dutchy that opened the door. It was early evening and the sun was in the midst of falling. We knew that most of the boys, if not already home, were on their way. They would be grabbing some food and getting ready for the night, whether that meant going out or hanging around the house for a few hushed card games or an early night's sleep.

He pushed the door open and strode in, boots echoing on the dead spots of the floor. Everything was so familiar. How long had we been away? They would think days. It had been over a week for us, but that seemed impossible. I felt like I was seeing everything with new eyes. The light was dim and dusty and what must have been raucous noise upstairs filtered down as quiet murmurs. Kloppman sat at his desk with a paper, muttering to himself. If he heard us enter, he did not look up. Why should he? It was just a normal day.

Dutchy stood rooted in place in the middle of the lobby. He clenched the Cure tightly in his left hand. I touched his shoulder and flashed him a grin that I wasn't feeling in my heart. I was still nervous, still wary. I stepped beyond Dutchy and purposefully put my weight on that treacherous board in front of the stairs, the one that creaks like the devil and has ruined many a boy's nighttime escape.

Kloppman raised his eyes and locked them with mine. He stood slowly and stiffly. His expression was equal parts hope and apprehension, but he seemed hesitant to break the silence.

Suddenly the front door banged open, causing all of us to jump a little. It was Snipeshooter, a little runt of a boy probably around the same age as Boots. He barreled into Dutchy and then stumbled back, about to fire off some smartass comment when he finally realized who we were. So he smiled instead.

"Hiya boys," he chirped. "Where yas been, anyways, huh?"

"None of your business," I said, putting a hand on the back of his head and pushing him forward playfully. He swung around to punch me, but missed, and so continued up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Kloppman ignored him.

"Do you have it?" he asked us breathlessly. I looked over my shoulder at Dutchy. I mean, my job here was done. I guess if I'd wanted to, I could have left the Lodging House and never looked back. But why would I do that?

Dutchy nodded. Kloppman didn't say anything else, so after an awkward pause, I led the way up the stairs. Now was not the time to be shy.

The door to the bunkroom was closed, and I opened it without hesitation. For a moment, the noise and chaos of a few dozen rowdy boys engulfed me, then it died down rapidly and a small crowd began to surround us. Skittery broke through the group and stared me down. Dutchy stepped forward and I could see him start to panic a little. I gave Skittery a weak smile and he laughed with relief and clapped me on the back.

"Just in time, I think," he whispered to me so Dutch wouldn't hear. Then he grabbed Dutchy's arm and started to bring us to Specs' bunk. Immediately, we were hit with questions and jokes from all sides, but I just tuned them out. I looked around as we made our way over and saw a variety of expressions. Some boys were relieved, like Skittery, and even joyful, boys that had been over to the Dark, or at least knew the truth behind Specs' predicament. Others were confused, or surprised, but glad to see us nonetheless. Dutchy and I were popular, but hadn't been best friends, and it must have been pretty strange for us to just up and leave together. I'm sure that everyone had had their own explanation as to where we'd gone, which wouldn't have helped. But none of that mattered. We weren't done, not just yet.

The crowd persisted and grew as more and more boys came to see what was happening. We couldn't get them to go away, at least not until we got near Specs. Even then, some of them followed, curious against their better judgment. As we approached, Pie-eater, ever loyal, stood up from a chair positioned at Specs' head. His expression was unreadable. He looked at Specs, then at us, and then just melted back into the wall of boys that had formed. I frowned and watched him go, wanting to thank him, or at least say something. But then I was distracted from that, too, because I saw Specs.

I paled. This was not the boy we'd left behind just days before. I only even knew it was him because it could be no one else. He lay straight out on the bunk, a threadbare blanket covering him up to his chest. He was white as a ghost except for dark, bruise-like spots under his eyes. His cheeks were sunken in and his collarbones stood out sharply. He was just a shell of his former self.

His glasses weren't around but his eyes were open and staring at the ceiling. They were clouded over like a blind man's, and saw nothing. Every once in awhile, his mouth would work as if he wanted to say something, or his skinny arms would shake a little, but I doubted he had any idea what was going on. He wasn't with us; he wasn't in this world.

I couldn't stop staring, but Dutchy just brushed right by me and knelt down at Specs' head. A hush fell over the room as Dutchy's eyes searched his Love's face, taking everything in and yet not quite believing it.

I stepped back, suddenly feeling out of place. Dutch finally tore his gaze away and took the top off the vial, his hands trembling slightly. I heard a scuffle behind me and turned to find Kloppman weaving his way toward us.

"Let me take care of this," he said kindly, letting a hand fall on Dutchy's shoulder. He was trying to redeem himself for walking out on us in the beginning. I guess I couldn't really blame him, and Dutchy looked relieved as he carefully handed the Cure to the old man. Someone pushed the chair forward and Kloppman sat slowly, instructing Dutchy to go to the other side of the bunk and support Specs' head.

Dutchy sat on the bed and held him up as Kloppman tipped the contents of the vial down his throat with a slow deliberateness. I didn't realize it at the time, but I was holding my breath – me and half the room, probably. I didn't know what to expect; none of us did. Sofia said he would sleep. We watched. We waited.

Kloppman studied his charge for a moment, then stood with a grunt and waved us off. "Give him some room," he ordered, but there was no real weight behind his words, and he disappeared downstairs. What did that mean?

I looked back. Specs' eyes were closed, his breathing slow and deep. His hands were still, one of them clutched tightly by Dutchy. Dutchy was in his own world, a world with a population of two. I realized then what I should have known all along. It would never be any more.

Feeling strangely empty, I turned and made for the stairs. I had this theory that the ache in my stomach could be cured with a cigarette. It'd been forever and a day since I'd had enough time to sit back and take a few good drags. Food wouldn't hurt, either, and at some point I'd need to start working and get some money.

I was home, it was over, and so my mind turned to normal things. The boys were finally beginning to clear out, the excitement over for the night. They filtered into the washroom or their own bunks and some even ran ahead of me and jumped down the stairs, eager for a night of freedom. I didn't hear Kloppman reprimanding them for roughhousing, so I assumed that he'd left to go for a walk, or whatever he did to unwind.

I paused and was glancing around the bunkroom, trying to decide who would be the most likely to bum me a smoke, when I remembered that I was the hero here, if only for the remainder of this night. Any of these guys would throw me a cig if it meant easing their guilt for not being able to help the poor kid on the bunk.

"Ey, Snitch," I called to a gangly boy sitting on his bed and counting change. "What gives?"

He nodded and jumped down to give me a hard handshake. "Good to see your ugly mug again, Higgins," he said.

"Listen kid, you gotta light?"

"Yeah, sure I do."

I grinned a little as he grabbed a matchbook from his pillow. "Oh, yeah, an' you gotta stick to go with it?"

He laughed and rolled his eyes, but took a cigarette from behind his ear and gave it to me all the same. "Rolled it myself," he added as he struck a match. "Hey, are we gonna see you at Medda's tonight?"

"We'll see," I said, taking a quick and satisfying puff. "I think I gotta date with my pillow."

He laughed again and moved on, leaving me with a small smile and a smoke cloud around my head. We were never supposed to smoke in the bunkroom, so I made for the stairs once again, looking forward to some downtime on the stoop outside. It's the simple pleasures in life that really matter.

I had my blinders on and was only thinking about myself. That's the only explanation I have for why I didn't see Bumlets until I literally ran right into him. He was at the bottom of the staircase and we both fell to the wood floor with a loud thump. I groaned and propped myself up on an elbow, ready to fire off some comment about Bumlets, his mother, and her line of work. Then I noticed that my hand was covered in blood, and I forgot all about my insults, and my smoke, too.

What had I done, landed on a loose nail? But I didn't hurt. And Bumlets hadn't moved. All of these observations hit me at once and I quickly went to his side. He was curled up into a ball, whispering something and clutching at his stomach. I rolled him onto his back and grimaced; his front was covered in red and his eyes were wide and empty with shock.

It was dark outside, and the lamps in the lobby threw out a strange, misleading kind of light, but I knew that I wasn't seeing things. That's when I heard that floorboard creak, and I finally looked up, and couldn't have been more surprised at what I saw staring me down with a filthy knife and a dirty sneer.

Morris Delancy, his brother Oscar at his shoulder, both of them smug with the knowledge that they had me cornered.