MANHATTAN – MARCH 1905

"I wasn't sure at first," Jack began, stopping before the pudgy man's table. "If it was really you. But now I know." His voice was bitter, though his heart was racing. With breath of confidence, Jack slid in the empty chair across from the man. "Never thought I'd see you here, of all places."

"Excuse me, what the hell do you think you're doing?" The man's tone was gravely yet commanding. He wasn't especially scared, but angry at the interruption. "And just who the hell are you?"

"And here I was, thinking you'd be happy to see me," Jack said. "After all this time."

The man said nothing, still looking at Jack in confusion.

"You ain't as big as I remember," Jack continued, sizing up the man with his eyes. "You used to look so strong, so scary, but now I reckon I could kick your ass. Funny how that happens, you know?"

"Okay, I'm not playing this game," the man said, his frustration rising to the surface. "Do I know you from somewhere?"

Jack took a deep breath, giving the man a sideways glance before asking, "Well, as you used to say, once a Refuge gutter rat, always a Refuge gutter rat."

The man glared at Jack, his lower lip twitching, his body stiff, detecting threat, feeling trapped.

Suddenly, a look of realization flashed over the man's face. "Hm," the man grumbled, nodding a little.

Something registered in his eyes. He leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his thinning white hair. He opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. It was like his mind went blank as he wiped his hands with a napkin.

"I guess I'm just that unmemorable," Jack mumbled. "Same as the other nameless, faceless revolving door of kids in your office."

They were both quiet for a moment.

"You may not remember me, but I sure as hell remember you," Jack said. "Go ahead. Look at me. Look at my eyes. Wrack your brain. Don't pretend you don't know."

Something dawned on the man as he scanned Jack's face in the dim lighting, putting together the pieces. With a squint, the man tilted his head.

"Francis Sullivan. I'll be damned," the man said, fumbling over the sentence.

"So, you do remember me?"

"How could I forget…" He smirked. "You were always such a frightened little boy, weren't you?"

"I ain't that frightened little boy anymore," Jack said.

"Oh? Is that what you came to tell me?" The man's voice carried irritation again. "What do you want? Money? Is that what you're after? Have you taken to begging?"

"Nah, I don't want your money," Jack said, leaning forward across the table to rest his elbows. "I don't want a goddamn thing from you."

"That's a first," the man said, pushing away his plate. "Then speak up, boy. What the hell do you want?"

"What do I want?" Jack almost laughed. "I want you to spend the rest of your life, walking these streets, watching the kids in those dives and dens and brothels, and thinking about how horrifically you've failed them." He pointed to his newspaper, hitting his finger on the table. "Feeling nothing but agonizing guilt every time you read an obituary for one of those 'Five Points gutter rats' what overdosed on morphine, or drank themselves to death, or jumped off the bridge, or got electrocuted in the chair. Their blood is on your hands, and you'll be a murderer same as if you'd killed 'em yourself."

"You're dreaming, boy," Snyder said with a slight chuckle, though his unsettled eyes told another story. "I don't have to hear this from the likes of you." He nodded to Jack's wedding ring. "Got yourself a little hooker, I see. Don't tell me you have a kid now, too. We taught you boys better than that."

Nigel Snyder was employed at a local bank, and he'd developed a bit of a drinking habit. His marriage had fallen apart, and his wife was threatening to leave him for her sister's place in Connecticut. His career had been unstable since his eviction from Randall's Island and his brief prison sentence.

He'd stepped into Tibby's for a drink and a late dinner, not expecting any kind of confrontation from a former inmate. But that's exactly what he got.

Jack laughed a little, making Snyder frown. "Careful, old man. You don't want to say something you'll regret. I promise, you will not walk out of here if you start a fight."

"Don't act tough."

"I ain't acting."

"You were a cowering, thieving, laudanum addict, Sullivan," Snyder said. "The lot of you were pathetic little beggars. Every one of you in that dorm. Whores for one thing or another. I tried to help, make you smart, teach you how to negotiate. I thought you'd learned. But now I see I was mistaken."

"Oh, is that what you call it? You were trying to help?" Jack asked. "I always thought you made those deals 'cause you liked fuckin' and beatin' us." With that, Jack scraped back the chair, standing up. "But now I see I was mistaken."

"You little shit, how dare you!" Snyder yelled in disbelief, but Jack was already moving to the front of the restaurant again. "Don't you walk away from me! Get back here, Sullivan! I swear, boy, I'll—I'll—"

"You'll what? Hit me? Tie me to my bed? Throw me in solitary?" Jack asked flatly without turning around. The few patrons had stopped to watch the exchange, now casting suspicious looks Snyder's way. Jack threw some coins onto the counter where his pint was and walked out into the night, leaving a trembling Snyder furiously shouting his name and stammering in his wake.