MANHATTAN - SEPTEMBER 1899

Jack Kelly never used to be afraid of monsters under his bed. Never used to fear the dark. But ever since the Refuge, he'd been terrified of it all. Ghosts filled the negative space, drifted through the shadows, and cried out to him from beyond.

After he escaped, he slept in his lodging house bunk bed dressed in day clothes and boots in case he had to make a swift exit.

But it had been months since he felt truly unsafe. And going back to the Refuge during the strike – if only for a day or two – brought up old memories. Memories he'd tried so hard to erase.

And that night, in the Jacobs' apartment, those dreadful flashbulb images and sounds came flooding back all at once. He'd been thinking about his sister, which got him thinking about Muggs dragging his own sister out of Medda's, which got him thinking about Medda, which got him thinking about laudanum.

Jack was wide awake at two in the morning. His arms were still wrapped around Sarah, his chin atop her head as they lay in bed. She was sound asleep, rhythmically breathing against his chest, and lightly holding Jack's right hand in hers.

It had been an emotional few days. Few months. Few years. Jack knew what he needed, what he wanted. Sleep was on his list, but not at the top. Right now, he needed laudanum. The gnawing ached at his brain, eating away any shred of resistance or reason. He could justify his use. Make excuses for breaking sobriety. He had to stop the nightmares, the memories.

But Jack knew he'd hate himself once the effect wore off. He'd be ashamed by his weakness. Guilty for his compulsion.

So, he tried to conjure up happier moments to supplement the craving. Catching lightning bugs with Racetrack all those years ago. Running through the rain, stomping in puddles on the way back to the lodging house. The swirl of watercolor the street painters used on their canvases, capturing the Hudson. Mrs. Kloppman's tea kettle shrieking on the stove. The first day of summer. Climbing up rope ladders after a swim in the East River. Struggling to braid Sophie's hair when they were small. Sweet-smelling rose bushes in Central Park. Laying on the docks with Spot and the others, making funny shapes out of clouds. Sunshine pouring over the city skyline from a rooftop view. Makeshift blanket forts in the Refuge dormitory on one of his last nights…

That hurt. He didn't mean for his mind to travel there. Now he was never going to fall asleep. Tears burned his eyes. What possessed him to get so attached? Why had he made friends in there? He was supposed to lay low, not make waves, be invisible, stay anonymous. Maybe he'd do it differently if he could go back. Instead, he'd shut off, isolate himself, and push away those he dared to come near.

Suddenly, he yearned for Sarah to be awake, too. He didn't want to be alone in his consciousness. He wanted her to ramble about anything, the way she usually did. He never tired of hearing her talk. Once she got going about a passion, her eyes would light up like little electrical bursts. Her cheeks would flush this brilliant amaranth pink.

She liked giving literary analyses about books she'd borrowed from the shabby library on East Houston Street. Nicholas Nickleby, Pride and Prejudice, The Picture of Dorian Gray, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. Jack had tried reading the latter, but he couldn't get past the first few chapters. Too ridiculous, he decided.

As he lay there silently beside her, Jack wished he were back in Alice's world. Engrossed in the whimsy and nonsense. It would be a welcome break from reality. Not a complete substitute for laudanum, but some sort of relief in any case.

Relief. Any kind was better than none. Jack recalled Grim saying that. He now knew Grim didn't really believe it. It was something he said to put his own mind at ease, and Jack understood exactly how he felt. It just took Jack longer to figure that out for himself.

Jack squeezed his eyes shut tightly before reopening them. There were things Sarah didn't yet know, not just from the Refuge. From a time before. After he and Sophie had run away. Things that continued to haunt him, though he'd buried them deep. So deep, in fact, he wasn't entirely sure they were once real at all. Maybe he'd dreamt it. That was certainly a possibility. But dreams don't tug at one's heart, chew at one's mind, rattle one's bones – not unless they've come from truth.

That first dosage of laudanum, and that sinful feeling that followed. To help him relax, take the edge off. Oh, it was bliss and misery combined. Entirely cloudy, and yet the feeling was so intense. From then on, Jack associated that feeling with the drug.

Kloppman noticed Jack was out of it as soon as he stumbled back to the lodging house in the evening, that tragically euphoric evening in 1896. Kloppman inquired about how his sister was holding up, but Jack wasn't sure he'd exchanged one word with Sophie while he was there. He couldn't remember. It was a hazy mess of shimmering lights, ruffled tarlatan and tulle, the faint smell of rosemary. Medda's voice assuring him he wanted this. That he could trust her. That she'd always look after him. Then the world had rippled and waved, like a puddle of water being disturbed by a carriage rushing by.

Kloppman asked if Jack was okay, noting his rumpled clothes and heavy eyes. He almost thought the boy had been mugged. But Jack resurrected his coins for rent, dismissing Kloppman's theory. Jack refused to tell Kloppman what happened, only that he'd had 'the strangest dream ever' when he fell asleep at Medda's theater. Kloppman pressed, but Jack downplayed it, and the superintendent let him.

My boys say all kinds of odd things, Kloppman thought. A strange dream was nothing to fuss over. Kloppman assured himself it was nothing, that if Jack weren't feeling well, the boy would tell him. They were close, and Kloppman felt secure in his belief in Jack's transparency toward him.

When Kloppman climbed the steps later that night to check on him, he found Jack asleep, his hair damp as if he'd bathed. This took Kloppman aback, and he chuckled to himself quietly, astounded Jack had washed up. He usually had to beg Jack to do so when his hair got so greasy and his clothes got so dirty that he smelled like the streets.

Kloppman never found out what Jack meant by 'the strangest dream ever.' And Jack never said anything further on the matter.

Sarah stirred in her sleep, bringing Jack out of the fog he was in. Leaning down, Jack gently brushed a lock of hair from Sarah's face, tucking it behind her ear. After a moment of debate, Jack propped himself up on one elbow and whispered, "Sarah."

She didn't move, so he tried again, a little louder.

"Sarah."

Sarah's brown eyes flickered open to find Jack staring down at her in the darkness. "Jack?" She mumbled, squinting at his face. "What's happening…did you have a nightmare?"

"No," Jack replied.

Sarah began closing her eyes again. "Go back to sleep." Her voice drifted to Jack but sounded distant.

Jack nodded, yet his eyes refused to close all the way. Nothing was worse than this heavy pain in his heart. He lay back and pulled Sarah into the crook of his arm. He felt a twinge of happiness when Sarah cuddled against him, sinking in as though there were no place she'd rather be. He eyed the way her nightgown hung around her body and defined her curves. But he was reluctant to do anything more than look. Instead, he shifted his gaze to the wooden dresser, analyzing the shapes of various bottles and tins.

After a minute, the deep breaths told Jack that Sarah had fallen back asleep. He glanced down to see her eyes were closed again.

Jack let himself to gaze at her fragile features, the elegant outlines of her eyelashes and the bridge of her nose, the slenderness of her jaw and cheekbones, and the bow shape of her lips. She gave a weak exhale, and Jack held her tighter. She reacted by rolling over, now at eyelevel with his neck.

The need to bend in and kiss her was so strong, the muscles in Jack's forearms strained. It was the same need he'd come to feel for laudanum. He grit his teeth, praying and pleading for sleep, but his mind was a live wire. He needed whatever god was listening to take away his ache for the drug. Better yet, he wanted to forget he'd ever had the stuff in the first place.

Jack leaned down, pressed his lips against her hairline, and kissed her.

Sarah smiled a little at the sensation.

Jack's touch moved to her lower lip, tracing and pulling ever so gently. Sarah stirred again, feeling her heart leap. She stopped breathing as Jack slowly and lightly dragged his thumb to her upper lip and then to just below her left eye.

She didn't open her eyes, didn't want to make him stop, particularly when he pressed his lips to her forehead. She half-expected him to continue his movements until he was planting kisses on her neck again. But when he began to move away, as though snapping out of a hypnotic state, Sarah opened her eyes.

She raced after his mouth, finding it with her own. Raising her fingers to his hair, she murmured against his parted lips, "Jack…it's okay."

He took refuge in those words. His mouth ground against hers like a bat out of hell, gentle kisses being replaced for a more passionate one. The rough, overwhelming force hit Sarah like a tidal wave. She might have whimpered with the exhilaration of the kiss, but it was so intense that she settled for tangling her fingers in his hair to convey her desire to keep going.

In an instant, her hand was traveling lower, below the blanket, and pulling at the buttons of Jack's trousers.

Jack pulled back, practically struggling away from her. He yanked the blanket up and lay back, putting distance between him and Sarah.

For her own part, Sarah hadn't taken her eyes of him, watching his reaction unfold. She was wide awake now. Twisting the tangled loose strands of her long hair, mortified by Jack's sudden rejection of her. The intensity of both moods came out of nowhere, and the switch confused her.

When Jack looked at her, the desire bubbling in his eyes had died, having been replaced with shame. She held her breath as he sat up, resting against the frame.

"Did I do something wrong?" Sarah asked, the worry evident in her voice.

"No, nothing," Jack said curtly, brushing off her concern. His voice broke on the word 'nothing.'

Sarah stared over at him in disbelief and confusion. He refused to meet her gaze. She pulled herself up, sitting beside him, almost shoulder to shoulder.

"Didn't seem like nothing," Sarah said softly. "Are you sure you're okay?"

Jack finally brought his eyes to hers, locking them for a moment before staring past her. His eyebrows knit together, his forehead wrinkled, and his lips curled into a frown.

"Sarah?" Jack's voice began to shake. The cries he'd struggled to hold back began forcing their way from his chest and up his throat. He took an unsteady breath, his lips quivering ever so slightly. "I…I have to tell you something."

With a strangled gasp, Jack fought to keep his tears from spilling. The thought of taking laudanum in that moment made him feel physically sick, like he might vomit.

Sarah's eyes widened as Jack lowered his head and brought his hands to his eyes, groaning to keep from breaking down. His brain was dazed.

He brought his eyes back to hers, now red-rimmed and bleary. "Um…a few years ago…" Jack began, recounting the vague memory the only way he knew how. "I had the strangest dream…" His eyes squinted with tears as he covered his mouth haphazardly with his fingers. "But it wasn't really a dream, I guess. Laudanum's a hell of a drug, ya know…"