I awoke in the big bed alone. The room and the washroom were empty, and I took the opportunity to clean up. I knew we were facing a long walk back to Brooklyn. I looked around and spotted my pillowcase with the Twain novel. Somehow I had held onto it. I carried it downstairs and into the lounge. There was Spot, reading the morning newspaper, and I suddenly realized he hadn't sold in several days on my account. I looked down, guilt once again rushing over me. I tried to think of something to say, glad he hadn't seen me yet.

"Whatever you're thinking, stop," his voice carried across the room. He hadn't actually moved, and I couldn't see him. I have no idea how he knew I was even there; his face had not appeared from behind the paper yet. However, it was his words that actually surprised me. My whirring, questioning brain snapped to attention as Spot finally set down the paper and looked at me intently.

"No thinking. Just good morning," he said, and I looked down.

"Good morning," I mumbled to the plush carpet.

"If I remember correctly, you once apologized to me for mumbling into the ground instead of looking me in the eye. Am I really that hard to look at?" He said it gently, in a light, teasing manner.

"I—" I was a bit at a loss. This conversation seemed so normal—like one of our park bench talks rather than something he was saying to a girl in the lounge of a brothel. My brain wavered for a split second, but then I went with it.

"Good morning," I said more clearly, looking up at him. He smiled, and I decided I could do this—pretend nothing had happened and that things were normal.

"Let's get out of here. We can get some breakfast on the way," he suggested, and I nodded and moved toward the door.

"You forgot your cloak," he smiled, gesturing to a beautiful new one hanging on a peg. I wondered where the garment had come from. I put it on dutifully, slipping the Twain book I still had clutched in my hand into the large pocket.

"Whose is it? Where did you get it?" I asked, fingering the fabric reverently. It really was beautiful.

"It suits you," he said, avoiding the question as we set off.

A few good meals, a bath, and a lot of sleep can do a fair bit to ease the effects of weeks on the streets, but they can't erase it entirely. I confess—it was slow going, and I was exhausted. Spot was kind, though, and didn't push me. He did, however, insist on sticking close enough to touch me—a trailing finger on my cloak, his shoulder against mine, a brush of his arm on me—pretty frequently. It was comforting, as if I could somehow draw on his strength and pull it into my body through the physical contact. We stopped numerous times to rest, and for the first time in my life, we stopped in the middle of the bridge just to yell over the side—something I had never tried before.

As we neared the end of the bridge and Brooklyn, I felt an incredible sense of relief and homecoming, and I said as much to Spot. He grinned, then gestured over to Red, who was running towards us. I hadn't realized how much I had missed him.

"Cat!" he cried, running up and grabbing me in a big hug.

It happened again. That panicky feeling of needing to get away, this time accompanied by that inability to breathe. I think I may have shrieked into Red's chest, and I flailed helplessly against him. He let me go, and I rushed backwards, away from the crushing feeling, away from the bands around my chest, away from the male presence, away from the feel of arms, away . . . .

" . . . alright, it's okay, Cat. You're okay. Breathe, Katja. Easy. It's okay." Spot's voice cut into my panic, and I realized that my hands were clasped in his. I was crouched against the railing of the bridge, and Spot was squatting in front of me. He pulled me to my feet. I took a deep, shuddering breath, but I couldn't control the shaking as I stood there looking at the wood of the bridge.

"Look at me, Katja," Spot said after a few moments, his voice soft but the command present.

I looked up and once again found myself at the end of that firm blue gaze. This time, however, it was comforting, and I kept my eyes locked to his. It was safe that way. Gradually the dizziness subsided and my full range of vision returned. My heart was still pounding, but at least I was somewhat functional.

"Spot, I—" I heard Red start to say, his tone apologetic and concerned.

"Not your fault," Spot answered him crisply, but his eyes stayed locked to mine. "Go tell everyone that Cat's back, but tell them no hugs." I heard Red move off and dropped my gaze back to the street.

"Look at me, Katja," Spot said again, and I forced my gaze back to his earnest one. "This wasn't your fault, either." I nodded, but I wasn't sure I believed him. "The boys will be coming soon. They've been worried sick about you for weeks. They're going to have questions. It's okay to blow them off. It's okay to say you don't want to talk about it or that you'll talk about it some other time. It's okay to ask them not to ask you. And it's okay to be upset or to be afraid. Most of these guys have a past, and they'll all understand it. We've all been afraid at some point. We all have things that upset us. It's not your fault, and it's okay." His eyes seemed to dig into me, demanding that I accept what he said. I took another deep breath and realized I still hadn't spoken.

"Red," was all I managed, and Spot nodded.

"He didn't know. Hell, you didn't know. I should have suspected. He'll understand, Cat."

I nodded, then looked around, drawing strength from the familiarity of my surroundings. Brooklyn felt like home. Spot must have seen me straighten because he moved away again. The loss of contact between our hands made me feel bereft somehow; I realized how much I relied on his strength and its transmission through contact. I reached my left hand out and grabbed his right hand, and once again that strength surged through me. He looked sideways at me, but he didn't say anything; he just gave my hand a small squeeze.

I heard a bark and turned ahead again. Jimmy was bolting towards me. I had never seen him run so fast. Roller, who was sprinting behind him, just couldn't keep up. The whilring, whining, spinning mass of fur plowed into my legs, and I nearly toppled over, using my left hand in Spot's for balance. I knelt down and threw my right arm around Jimmy, who was unable to stay still and just spun into me, knocking me to my bottom right there in the street. I laughed as Spot hauled me to my feet, still not letting go of my hand, and Jimmy tried to wrap his body around my legs. He was shoved aside by Roller, who threw his little arms around me and hugged his face to my stomach.

"Cat! You're back!" he shouted, and I smiled. Spot's eyes widened and he moved to haul the boy away, but he stopped when he saw my face. Apparently little boy hugs were okay. He looked at me, then shrugged.

"Where were you? Are you staying now? We missed you. Everyone was lookin' for you. Spot was so mad! And Red and Silver and some of the other big kids even went out at night and looked for you. Spot wouldn't let me out. But he told me you wanted me to take care of your dog, so I did. Did I do a good job? He missed you. So did I. But I taught him a trick. It made him feel better to play with me, but me and Spot and Red were the only ones who could touch him. He slept in your room every night. Are you coming back to the lodging house to stay now? Spot said that when you came back you could stay with us even though girls aren't really supposed to stay there. I'd like that. I can't wait to show you . . . "

I think Roller would have gone on for some time if it hadn't been for the fact that Spot interrupted him.

"Whoa, kid, slow down!"

Roller looked up at his hero, a bit crestfallen, but instantly silent.

"I missed you, too, Roller," I said, and that's when I started to cry. Only this time they were tears of relief. Roller was still clutched to my waist, and I put my right arm around him while my left hand felt another reassuring squeeze. Ace and Greasefoot jogged up just then, and I greeted them with a teary smile, still hugging Roller. The boys both wore huge grins, and I knew by the easy way they greeted me that things would be okay. I was home.

The first day back was full of awkward greetings, some teasing, and, thankfully, sitting. I was in a chair in the lounge, and even though it was May, the rain from the previous day and the fact that I was still recovering from my two weeks on the streets meant that I was chilly. Silver had bundled me in a heavy blanket, and Sam and Legs brought me food almost continuously, though I certainly couldn't eat all of it. Jimmy refused to leave my side, as did Roller. Spot was never far away, and he kept a keen eye on me and on my posse, even from across the room. He need not have worried though. Apart from Roller the boys all seemed to have gotten the message, and nobody tried to hug me. I was grateful, but I still felt guilty when it came to Red. He didn't seem to mind, though, and treated me normally, even teasing me about my appetite, which was nonexistent.

As the noise in the lounge grew, my exhaustion suddenly crept up on me. I felt a hand on my shoulder. "You look tired. You should go to bed," Ace said. I nodded and stood, yawning. Suddenly I felt nervous. My bed—the mattress I had missed, with its familiar lumps. My room, which had never really been mine but which had a window. I shook myself to clear my head, patted Jimmy's head as he stood beside me, and turned to hand Silver his blanket before calling out a goodnight and heading upstairs.

I entered the room and looked around. It was so familiar yet so strange; I knew every knick in each piece of furniture, yet I had only spent one stressful and interrupted night in this room. I heard movement and saw that the adjoining door to Spot's room was open. "Spot?" I called out, and my voice trembled.

"Yeah, Cat, I'm here," he said, emerging into my room. "I was just getting set for tomorrow. You turning in?" I nodded. "You gonna be okay?" he asked, and I shrugged.

"I don't know," I said honestly, and he nodded.

"I'll be next door reading," he said. "Call if you want some company or if you need anything." I nodded again.

In the end it was the window that comforted me. I cracked it, and the fresh air was soothing. I had missed that cooped up at Antonio's, and it had been the one good thing about the weeks I had spent on the streets. The presence of two doors, giving me three exits, put me at ease, and I fell asleep.

My dreams were a bit unsettled. I was trying to find a place to stay, but the boys kept coming by saying, "no whores here." I was running back home, but Papa and Mama simply turned and walked away from me. "You cannot stay with us, Katja," Mama said, and they turned away. Antonio appeared in front of me. "Come with me, Katie," he wheedled, and I shrank back. He grabbed me in a crushing hug, and I tried to push him away frantically. I sat up, panting a bit. I was in my bed in the lodging house and Antonio had only been a dream. Jimmy sat up when I did, but when I didn't move he just put his head back down on his paws and sighed, looking up at me. I envied him.

My mind was racing. It would be morning soon. I had no idea what to do that day. I had no job; at least, I assumed I didn't, and I confess that I was scared to go back to work for Antonio. The thought caused me to flinch. What if I did have to go back there? Spot said what happened wasn't my fault and that I shouldn't have sex with him anymore, but would Antonio be mad at me for it? Would he try to take me back to that apartment? The thoughts terrified me.

"Cat?" I heard Spot's soft voice from the doorway. Jimmy looked up at him, then back at me. I glanced over at Spot, who had thrown on trousers and a shirt before padding barefoot into the doorway. "You okay?" he asked gently, coming over to my bed. I nodded, but I didn't meet his gaze.

"You want to talk about it?" he asked, sitting down beside me.

"I was just worrying about today," I confessed, drawing my knees up and chewing on my bottom lip. "I am guessing I don't have my job anymore; even if I do, I don't know if I can work for Antonio again. What if he—" I couldn't voice my fears without my voice catching.

"You are never going back there," Spot said firmly, putting a hand on my shoulder. "I won't let him near you." I didn't look at his face, but I saw the set of his jaw out of the corner of my eye, and I recognized that determined stance and the icy tone.

"I just thought he might try to take me back there," I said quietly, and at this Spot's hand tightened on my shoulder.

"Where? Can you tell me about any of it?" he asked, but there was no demand to his voice.

"It was a small, dark apartment on the top floor. It smelled funny, and it was dirty. There was only one window, and he never let me near it. He would go to work, and I would do the cleaning and washing. Then I would make dinner for us. The second night he brought home wine for our dinner. That was the first night he . . . came over to my bed. Most nights he would . . . " I trailed off. "He said it was okay and that it was only fair to pay off my debts for hiding and feeding me. He said that since we still owed him money, the least I could do was to be a good girl for him." I wiped the tears from my face. When had those started? But the flood of words had started first, and it couldn't be stopped now.

"Afterwards he would go back to his own bed, but sometimes in the mornings he would come back to me. He liked to crush me to him when he . . . " I couldn't finish that sentence, so I moved on. "I hated that. He was always so sweaty and it just felt so sticky and dirty. I kept asking him how much longer before I could go to work. I kept waiting for word from you. Antonio said that you would answer my letter when it was safe. I just kept waiting. I even worked up the nerve to look out the window once. He was so angry. I told him I wouldn't do it again. There was a police officer outside, and I was so scared he would see me. It took me two more weeks before I worked up the nerve to leave. I snuck out in the middle of the night, and I ran. I ran all the way to Manhattan. But I didn't have any money or anything, so I just hid. I kept thinking I was supposed to go back to Antonio, but I just couldn't do it. I tried to tell myself that I was having an adventure like Tom Sawyer. I thought if I just kept looking around I would figure something out, just like Tom and Huck. Only nothing happened. I couldn't think of anything until I heard Minnie and thought that I could get a job there. I thought maybe that way I could see you again someday without getting you in trouble. I though maybe someday . . . " I trailed off. I didn't actually know what I had thought. The silence seemed to last forever. "I guess I just thought that maybe if I tried hard enough, I could make everything okay and that somehow you would show up and make everything okay," I added lamely. I finally chanced a look at his face.

His jaw was flexing, and he sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. "God, Cat," he choked out, and his voice sounded so heavy. "I just—" he sighed again. For the first time since I had known him, Spot Conlon was at a loss for words. I don't know why, but it frightened me, and I reached out for him. My arms came around his waist, and I pulled myself to him, leaning into his chest. He seemed startled, then put one arm gingerly around me. We laid down that way, all curled up together. He stared up at the ceiling, and I closed my eyes and rested my head on his chest. His free arm came up to hold my hand that had drifted up to his chest.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, though I don't think I really understood what exactly he needed to hear from me in that moment. I just felt like I needed to make it better—like whatever I had done to upset him needed to be fixed. His arms tightened briefly around me.

"No, Katja. Don't apologize. You didn't do anything wrong. None of that was your fault. Nothing. It was mine. I should never have let you out of my sight. I should have found you. I should have . . . " and here he choked off, and it suddenly dawned on me that he felt responsible for me. That he felt he had let me down. He, who had always been my rock. Who had always taken care of me. I chanced a glance at his face, and his eyes were full of tears. I wanted desperately to make them disappear.

"Spot?" I asked, and he tightened his arms around me briefly. "Can we just forget about all of it? Can we just pretend that it never happened?"

"We can try," he answered, and I think there was that hint of a smile on his face when he said it.