Guess what! We've reached the 50th chapter of WAN! (As well as my 100th document in my fanfiction documents, which is pretty cool as well.)

And I have exactly 100 reviews on this story right now! It's an exciting day!

Review Responses:

lucykeeven7: I did try not to hurt Elmer too badly. I love him too, but I also enjoy making fun of him, so I force him into scrapes constantly. And thank you, I'm delighted you're enjoying this!

JustVildaPotter: ELMER AND JENRY! LET'S GOOOO! That's good to hear! It's a random chapter about a random concept I wanted to explore, and I wasn't so sure y'all would enjoy, but ya did! Woohoo! Elmer thanks you for the luck, and hopes you enjoy the wooden nickel!

Big thanks to GrucyFanatic for favoriting this story the other day! I appreciate it.

And now for the introductory note:

Alright, guys. It's that time again. Time to make my readers sad. Why, you might be asking. Because it's Letter From The Refuge this chapter, that's why.

Let's go.

Chapter 50- ?

Sunday, September 19, 1999, 11:30 p.m.

He wasn't Charlie anymore. That he was certain of. After all, even Jack had stopped using his real name. Because it had been requested of him. Because everyone had liked the nickname better, and the new boy had been more than happy to accept the unfamiliar, at the time. But he wished it hadn't been so. Wished he'd stood his ground, ordered everyone to call him Charlie the way his parents had when they were still alive. Maybe then he would have felt more in place with the newsies, that he was rooted to them. Solid as rock. Would that have kept him from being so easily ripped away?

Probably not. A little more than twenty-four hours with the Spider had confirmed that there was no fighting him. The man would do anything to break a spirit, and he was far too adept at his practice. It shouldn't have been legal. And yet it was. The boy had experienced Snyder's abuses first-hand; his legs and stomach ached even now from the sting of his own crutches. His throat was raw from screaming, both as an exclamation of pain and a method of defiance toward the Spider. In short, absolutely every part of him hurt physically, and mentally, he wasn't feeling much better.

Currently, the only thing keeping him sane was the power he held in his hands, dimly lit by a single candle waxed onto the wooden bedframe. Said candle he had speculated about for far longer than was normal for a person. How had it become a permanent fixture in the Refuge? Which helpless foster kid before him had been in charge of concealing matches in the little tear in the mattress? What had their story been? Was it in any way connected to his own? An array of scratched markings had been carved up and down the thin column of wax; what were they for? Perhaps the maker of the notches had been counting down the days (or months or years) of confinement. Maybe they stood for something else, or nothing at all. The carver could have simply been bored.

Whatever the case may have been, it didn't mean anything to the boy taking advantage of the candle now. All that mattered was the light source was there, and he was grateful for it. In addition to the numerous inconveniences that came with his entrapment on a top bunk, there was one great convenience, and that was the contents of the mattress. Someone incredibly clever had occupied this bed before, for stored within the piles of stuffing were a multitude of treasures, among them the aforementioned matches, pencils (charcoal and the normal kind used for writing), paper (of any variety a person could imagine), and for some strange reason, Coronas cigarettes. He knew now what he was going to give Race for his birthday. If he ever saw Race again.

No, that was silly. Of course he would see Race again. And anyhow, the cigarettes were of no importance. It was the paper and pencil that were most useful, as he now had a place to gather his thoughts. For several minutes, possibly almost an hour, he had been sitting in his painful upright position on the bed, attempting to put pencil to paper, to organize his frantic mind in any form. But he couldn't think of how to say what he wanted. One thing, however, he knew: it would be awful if the Spider found the words once they were written down. If he was going to write something, it would need to be disposed of immediately.

And then the idea struck him. He would write a letter. How he was going to mail such a letter was a separate worry; at the moment, it was of no consequence.

Dear Jack, he began, only to stop instantly. His only idea so far as to how to get rid of the letter when he'd finished was by way of another newsie. Earlier that day, it must have been two, maybe three in the morning, he had jolted awake, and outside the window, standing on the fire escape, he had seen-

Except, it couldn't have been. More likely, the same pain that had brought him out of sleep had caused him to imagine what he wished was true. That Jack had come to rescue him from this wretched place. But he knew for sure that it would never happen. Because he had seen the day before, while the Spider beat and handcuffed him, that Jack wasn't as brave as he had always appeared. The young man's knight in shining armor wasn't a hero. Only... no. It wasn't that Jack couldn't be a hero, but he'd been incapable of coming to the rescue in that particular situation. And did that mean he would never be able to aid his friend? Well... yes. Sort of. No one messed with the Spider and came out on top. That just wasn't the way of things. It wasn't Jack's fault, or anyone else's.

Greetings from the Refuge.

How did one follow that? "Get me out of here, I'm scared." No. "Send help." No. "S.O.S." Absolutely not. He had to at least appear tough, because if Jack got worried as a result of the letter, then...

How are you?

That kind of question anticipated, no, invited a response. But he was certain no such thing would be coming. Well, anyway...

I'm okay.

Was he stating this just to reassure Jack, or was this a response to his last question? Had he turned this letter into a questionnaire between himself and himself? He was overthinking this.

As one would suspect, he was far from okay. Desperately, he needed to vent to someone about all that had happened in the past four weeks. But again, with the not worrying Jack idea. He could talk later, once he was out of the Refuge. Right now, he had to keep things short, so there was no use going on and on about how he felt. Emotions couldn't be transmitted through words anyway, could they?

Guess I wasn't much help yesterday.

Apparently, they could. A lump formed in his throat as he stared at the phrase, and he wanted so badly to cry, but he didn't.

Snyder soaked me real good with my crutch.

Crying only made the Spider's punishments worse. It was as if the man was fueled by children's tears. Indeed, he had done nothing but sneer at the boy all through the horrifying drive to the police station, and the one to the Refuge afterwards. Snyder didn't care for anyone but himself, was that not what Jack had always said? It was true, not that the younger boy had ever doubted the teenager who had willingly taken him under his wing.

Oh yeah, Jack: this is Charlie, by the way.

No. No he wasn't. He was only his nickname, or as the Spider preferred: "lousy crip". Nothing to no one. Try as he might, he could no longer think of himself as worthy of any other name. All that had vanished along with his safety and security. Now he was at the mercy of Snyder the Spider, and therefore, he was a crip.

These here guards, they is rude.

That was one way to sum up the Refuge. His fellow inmates weren't rude, necessarily, more... standoffish. They were just scared kids, as he was, and they already knew, as he was learning, that keeping one's eyes open and one's mouth closed was the easiest way to survive.

They say "Jump, boy, you jump or you're screwed."

He'd been forced to walk using his bad leg all day, jumping through any figurative hoop that suited the Spider's fancy. The other kids had encouraged their newest fellow prisoner to do what the man said, because that way, less harm would come to him.

And so he had done just that; he'd suffered through an entire hour of putting weight onto his mangled foot, keeping up straight posture despite the bruises covering both sides of his torso, all while being interrogated by Snyder. Repeatedly during the previous night and the entirety of Sunday, the man continued to march the boy into the sorry excuse for a kitchen, asking the same questions about the newsie strike and some guy named Francis Sullivan.

And repeatedly, the crip had given the Spider the same answers. He didn't know any Francis Sullivan. Such a person wasn't involved with the newsies or the strike. The boy also maintained, though Snyder had neither inquired nor showed signs of caring, that the "vandalism" for which he'd been arrested was not his doing.

This insistence only ignited more of the Spider's fury. The man had revealed a copy of that day's paper, and after vigorously beating the boy with it, had slapped it down on the table and demanded to be told the location of a certain young man in the front page photo. While privately celebrating the triumph of his fellow newsies, the crip had told Snyder that he had no idea where the other boy was, and anyhow, if it was Francis Sullivan he wanted, how was knowing the whereabouts of Jack Kelly going to help?

But the food ain't so bad, 'least so far.

He'd been struck across the face for his impertinence. And he had no way of checking, but there was probably still a handprint-shaped mark left over. The impact had hurt enough to make him able to taste his own blood.

That was the only thing he had tasted all day.

'Cause so far he ain't brung us no food.

Remembering that fact caused his stomach to growl, and he felt the hunger pains he had yet to become accustomed to resurface.

Ha. Ha.

The boy sharing the dreaded top bunk with him shifted at the sound of the crip's fake laugh, which he hadn't meant to make aloud. Said boy had informed his new bunkmate, upon initial complaints about hunger, that he was going to have to "suck it up an' deal with it" like the rest of them. Snyder the Spider, apparently, only fed the children entrusted to him on occasion, usually when he grew sick of their complaining. The newbie could see the rip in the mattress was going to be useful in the future for food storage, and he wondered again who had created the nifty hiding spot. Then he shook his head, wanting to slap himself for his own stupidity. It had to have been Jack.

I miss the rooftop.

God, how he wished his best friend was there with him, even though he would never wish the Refuge on his worst enemy. But Jack, a seasoned Refuge escapee, would know what to do. Just the presence of him would make the crip's loneliness less vast than it was.

Sleeping right out in the open, in your penthouse in the sky.

He knew no one here. Despite the cramped nature of the single bedroom, the other kids confined there were not making any efforts to get to know him. He didn't mind, exactly, because they weren't his friends. However, as they were all trapped there together...

He'd just thought, optimistic as he was, that the people sharing his predicament would at least acknowledge him, especially when he'd offered them his smile.

But of course, this was stupid. The Refuge had no need for his light.

There's a cool breeze blowing, even in-

He stopped to scratch out the sentence. Every word he wrote caused him to miss Jack and Duane Street more, and that wouldn't do, not when he had no chance of ever getting back there. Because once a kid was in the Refuge, they never got out. Unless they happened to be Jack Kelly, which he was not.

Anyway. So, guess what. There's a secret escape plan I got.

Despite not being Jack, the crip had toyed with an idea earlier in the day, during one of the rare periods in which Snyder left his charges alone. An idea that was most certainly never going to work, but at the very least, he could impress Jack with it. False hope was still hope.

Tie a sheet to the bed, toss the end out the window, climb down, then take off like a shot!

What was he saying? This idea was ridiculous. Screw hope, regardless of its truthful quality. The window was barred, and he wouldn't have been able to climb out of it on a normal day, not with his injury. His plan was worthless, and he knew it. As a matter of fact, he'd known it all along.

Maybe though, not tonight. I ain't slept, and my leg still ain't right.

He was tired, so very tired. And hungry. No, starving. Also, his back still ached from being forced to straighten up for long periods of time, and his legs had been dangling over the edge of the bed for so long he wasn't sure he would be able to drag them back up when he wanted to lay down.

Hey, but Pulitzer, he's going down!

There was still a glimmer of light in the headline the newsies had accomplished. But the crip was no longer part of the strike, so what did it matter? He wasn't going to be able to support his friends while he was trapped on a bed.

And then, Jack, I was thinking, we might just go, like you was saying.

He hated how helpless he was now. Hated being stuck in this horror movie of an apartment, where no one cared who he was or what he wanted. If he let himself be completely, totally honest, he would rather be dead than in the Refuge. He almost wished he hadn't been able to withstand Snyder's initial beating, that he'd allowed himself to give up after seeing the one person he truly loved leave him in the dust.

Where it's clean and green and pretty, with no buildings in your way.

Jack had promised to always look out for him, so why had he run away when the crip was in trouble?

Because there was one thing he cared about more. The crip knew this. He was always going to be second in Jack's mind, because of Santa Fe.

And you're riding palominos every day.

"No one cares about no gimp leg in Santa Fe," Jack had said once when elaborating on his invitation for the crip to come with him to New Mexico. "You just hop a Palamino, you ride in style!"

The other boy had rolled his eyes at Jack's goofy horse-riding dance and scoffed, "Feature me: ridin' in style." Like it was no big deal. As if the proposition hadn't meant the world to him.

"Hey, I bet a few months a' clean air, you could toss those crutches for good!"

Jack was a liar, that was what he was. An unreliable liar. Why else would he have left the other boy to be taken to the Refuge? That dirty, rotten, heart-stealing, no good cowboy.

He missed his friend. The crip really did, in more ways than one, although he wasn't exactly sure what these ways were. Which was confusing. All his feelings were confusing.

Mainly, he felt it wasn't fair, that he'd cared about Jack so much and got nothing in return. To be somewhat sure of his own affections, but know nothing of Jack's, was truly frustrating. In addition, if Jack left now, before he could escape the Refuge, he would never find out if Jack's closeness to him meant what he half-wanted it to mean. And the not-knowing would haunt him for the rest of his crippled, miserable life.

Once that train makes-

With the loudest bang imaginable, the bedroom door burst open, bringing with it the arrival of Snyder. The crip fell back against the bed, squeezing his eyes shut, barely daring to breathe. As he laid there, letter crumpled in his fist where no outsider would see it, he remembered the candle that he hadn't gotten a chance to put out before the Spider's appearance. By squinting as much as he could, the crip could pretend to be asleep, while also watching Snyder stride over to his bunk in a most ungrateful fashion. Then, near the edge of the bed, the man stopped, reached up, and extinguished the candle with two fingers.

Following this, he smacked the crip's legs, which still hung off the bed, muttering as he did so, "Lousy crip. Gonna burn da place down."

The crip had to bite his tongue to keep himself from crying out at the pain. Even though the man was standing a ways away, he could smell the alcohol on Snyder's breath, a smell which faded as the Spider departed from the room.

Once the door had closed, the crip opened his mouth, whispering, "Damn this place."

He wanted to scream more curses, in the hopes that whichever deity or deities existed would hear his request and strike the Refuge down. Again, he wished he could just vanish, and not have to deal with this pain anymore. After only a day, he despised the Refuge, and he had no idea how Jack had ever withstood the years of trauma.

Jack. He needed to speak to Jack. Shakily, he sat up again, this time using the moonlight coming through the bars in the window to light the way of his pencil on the paper.

I'll be fine, good as new, he lied, as if Jack would believe it.

He truly couldn't take it anymore. A few more days with the Spider, and the crip wouldn't be returning from the Refuge. He'd decided to let himself give up if it became too much for him, and he wasn't going to overturn such a decision. But if the last thing he did was going to be finishing this letter, he was determined to do it.

Hey, but there's one thing I need you to do.

Not that the letter would ever reach Jack anyway. It would be torn up come morning, unless the crip came up with some genius way to send it.

On the rooftop, you said that a family looks out for each other.

Why didn't you look out for me, was what he wanted to scream, rather than continuing to repeat Jack's lies. How could you leave me here?

So, you tell all the fellas, from me, to protect one another.

"Hey, you up there!" came a whispered voice, and the crip turned his head toward the sound. This time, he wasn't imagining things. There really was someone outside the window. But it was only Specs.

Still, he couldn't help smiling at the fact that someone had actually come for him. Granted, it wasn't his usual level of beaming, but it was something. "Specs!"

"You okay?" The other boy called, still at a hushed level. This caused the boy sharing the crip's bunk to wake up and shush them both.

"Fine," the crip lied, quickly scribbling an ending to his letter. "Ya don't gotta worry 'bout me."

The end.

And somehow, he could tell that Specs knew what he'd just been thinking. Those wishes that he was no longer in existence. They held so much weight on their own, and if you added the fact that he meant them wholeheartedly...

It was suffocating.

"Are you su-"

Before Specs could finish, the crip took a shuddering breath, nudged the boy who had shushed him. "Hey, couldja give this-" he held up the letter, then pointed to Specs- "to that guy for me?"

The other boy shrugged affirmatively and grabbed for the letter. But the crip pulled back.

"Hang on, I gotta finish first."

Your friend. That didn't feel right. He wasn't sure what the correct send-off was, but "friend" simply wouldn't cut it.

Your best friend. Now, that was just a lie. He certainly hadn't known Jack long enough to qualify for that position; even if he'd been thinking of himself as Jack's best friend, that didn't make it official. Race and Smalls were better suited for that particular label, at least in the crip's opinion. Jack might beg to differ. But the crip didn't want to be only Jack's friend, he wanted-

Nope. Maybe it would be better to steer clear of the word "friend" altogether, considering the phrase he really wanted to put down was something along the lines of "I love you". But that was too much to put in a letter, especially a letter to someone he was unsure he would see again.

Your brother. There. That would have to be enough. Maybe Jack would understand that "brother" was merely a placeholder, only used for lack of a better term. Or maybe Jack only ever looked at him in a brotherly way, so it didn't matter anyway.

"Alright, enough already!" snapped the other boy, ripping the letter from the crip's hand.

Again, he snatched it back. There was one more thing he needed to write. He had never imagined signing his name would be so difficult, and yet here he was, trying to decide who he was in a matter of seconds. Charlie, the sunshiney, occasionally reckless boy, was gone. Snyder had destroyed him. And "lousy crip" wasn't his name, however much it felt that way. In all honesty, there was only one name he could go with, for it was the only one that made sense.

He signed the letter quickly, scratching out To Jack on the other side of the page before he folded it and handed it off to his bunkmate. The other boy scampered quickly down the ladder and across the room to transport the paper to Specs.

An instant after tucking the letter under his hat, Specs was gone, leaving the younger, semi-nameless boy with the not-so-reassuring reassurance of "Just hang on, kid. We'll come back for ya. It'll all be okay."

Right. Easy for Specs to say.

The boy who had acted as messenger fell back asleep quickly, but the kid sharing the bunk lay awake, staring up at the ceiling. However, it wasn't the speckled, peeling paint job his attention was focused on, but the last word he had put into the letter, the eight letters and two syllables that were now his name.

When he closed his eyes, all he could see was the word, seared into his brain.

Crutchie.

That's that. Poor Crutchie needs multiple hugs, and a really good therapist.

If this was slightly confusing, that was either because Crutchie himself was confused or because I was trying so hard not to give him a name that it overcomplicated something. Sorry if I did that.

Anywho, I need to build up my stock of chapters to post again before I run out, which means I need to spend more time writing new ones. So you may or may not get another chapter next weekend.

In the meantime, please leave a review to tell me what you thought of this one, and I'll see you when I see you!