A/N: The strike is here! Thanks again to the original Newsies for providing the lines of "The World Will Know," associated dialogue, and inspiration!

Housekeeping notes: There is, as far as I know, no St. Catherine of Siena's girls' university in MA (from last chapter). That is a figment of the author's imagination.

Yes, I am aware that most doctors and therapists are kind and accommodating toward disabled patients. The attitude Crutchie talks about is meant to reflect the sexist, classist, and ableist attitudes more common to 1899. They are also meant to reflect the attitudes disabled people still face today, when they are told they are "not trying" to do things, using pain to manipulate, and so forth. (Yes, sometimes disabled people will legitimately do this, but sometimes they are falsely accused. And many, if not most disabled people, myself included, were in 1899 and continue to be now, threatened with institutionalization of one form or another).

On we go!

Chapter 8:

"'Night, guys," Crutchie said at the end of her story. "I'm gonna walk Jack to the rooftop, and then I'll be back for lights out, okay?"

"Okay." Dodger spoke for the group. "Wow, Crutchie, you been holdin' out on us. You sure you ain't ever wrote a whole book before? Doin' the newsie thing for extra cash?"

Crutchie sent her leading newsie a wry grin. "I am positive. Under those covers, my little first mate."

"Yes, ma'am."

"It's official," Jack declared. "You're a hit, and one step closer to bein' a novelist."

Crutchie elbowed him. "Shut up." But she couldn't stop the laugh that bubbled from her chest. She'd been sharing her stories for almost two weeks now, sometimes with Jack as a partner to do the male voices, but often by herself, since she wanted him to have plenty of sketching time. She'd forgotten, for almost two years, what it was like. Only her folks and Joey had ever known about her thirst for words, characters, adventure, and happy endings. And after that, she'd only told herself stories on a rare good night in the Refuge, when she could still think, enough to get her through.

Yet, now she found the difference in the younger newsies' eyes. Denton had been right about them needin' a house mother, in that somebody needed to teach 'em how to clean up after themselves, watch their language, deal with the grime of the job without smellin' like a coal wagon 24-7, and look out for each other. But these kids didn't know nothin' 'cept the harshest stuff New York could throw at 'em. Like Crutchie, if they'd had folks to make sure they got to school on time, or feed 'em supper, or kiss 'em good night, those folks were now gone. And if she could give them a little bit of hope, a weapon to face reality with…

Reality.

"Plenty of people want to see you in the Refuge, life sentence like."

"Stupid, lazy cripple. Too bad polio didn't kill you."

"In this world, girl, you get what you deserve, which is what you work for. You can't work, so you deserve nothing. Not food, not water—you're lucky you're allowed to defecate in a bucket."

Jack nudged Crutchie's hand. "Hey, where'd ya go, Next Jane Austen?"

"I'm here. Thinkin', is all."

"Huh. Penny for them."

"Keep it. We're gonna need all the coins we can get to survive."

Jack held open the rooftop door. "You still worried about the Delancey brothers? They was bluffin', they done it before."

"I dunno. It's been naggin' at me. You know how the others joke about my leg predictin' the weather?"

"Yeah, but we all know it's just for fun."

"It is—but this ain't. Tellin' the kids stories, it helps, a lot. Only then I start worryin' about them, their future. And then I start rememberin'. You keep a secret?"

"You know I will. Shoot."

"Ever since that run-in with Morris and Nancy, the nightmares are back, bad. I wake up and the pain's back, too. It's as bad as when I first got sick. Crampin', burnin', pins and needles…one stops, the other starts. And if I so much as close my eyes, the nightmares come back."

Jack's eyes went granite. He gripped her shoulders, firm, but not like he wanted to hurt her. "Then you gotta see a doctor."

"No!" Crutchie covered her mouth when she realized she'd shouted, then listened. No one seemed to respond. "No," she said again. "They'll blame me, say it was 'cause I took the newsie job, was out in the streets sellin' papes. They'll put me through those therapies again, and then call me names and threaten to—put me someplace if I show it hurts. And maybe you think they won't, 'cause you weren't in the hospital, you didn't see…"

"But I do know," Jack cut her off. "I read the same papes you do, Crutchie, and other stuff, too. When you got sick, I looked in the library about polio, about crip kids. I can't even read that good, but Specs is a fair hand at it, so I asked him. And what he told me people said, what they did to sick kids—man! So I won't let that happen."

"Nobody wants bad stuff to happen, Jack. My pop was right there with me. He knew what those docs were sayin', doin'. He tried hard to protect me. But the docs are the experts, and if my folks hadn't listened, they'd have sent me home to die. So if my own dad, the strongest guy I ever knew, couldn't help me, what's a newsie gonna do?" Nobody can protect me. The thought whacked her worse than Snyder's fist.

"Newsies can do a lot more than you think. You're the livin' proof. One of these days, it's all gonna be over."

"Yeah, when the train makes Santa Fe. And I'll be thrilled for you. But…"

"For you, too! Polio or not. We's a family, don't you get that yet?"

"Of course I do, but…"

"So, trust me. I'm not lettin' you down, Crutchie. No way. Not again."

Jack's eyes stared into hers, so earnest it hurt to look after a minute. "Kids are probably wonderin' what happened to me."

"Yeah. Listen, I'm gonna talk to Mrs. Martinelli, okay? Get you somethin' for the pain, help you sleep. And you can always come up here. I'll stay on my side. If the nightmares hit, just wake me. I'll talk ya through it."

"Okay." Although Crutchie knew good and well, she wouldn't do it. She'd been Jack's burden long enough on her best days. He didn't need this version of her.

"Okay. Just hold on, kid. I don't know what's comin', but even if you're right and it's bad, newsies don't stay down for long."

Rooftop, A Few Mornings Later

"Ya know, it ain't exactly fair," Jack said, sliding his pencil into his pocket. "I show you my sketches all the time, but I can't get a poem or plot outta you."

Crutchie shut her journal, stuck it in her pocket. "Writin's a little different. You have to start with the rough stuff and then polish. The version you want folks to hear may be totally different from what you started with. But you got a point, so…" She leaned against the railing, focused on the sunrise. The poem, the letter about the words she'd never said to her family, the words she didn't say to the bullies at school and the snobby newsgirls, the words the Refuge stole, gathered in her head and poured slowly from her mouth, like tea in a porcelain cup. Fragile. Careful. Yet certain in their heat, their herbal strength. At the end, Jack stared at her, face unreadable.

"See? That's not…"

"That's stinkin' brilliant, is what it is. Crutch, you know how many times Henry's told me he wishes he told his ma he loved her one more time, 'fore he ran out tryin' to escape his drunk dad? You know the stuff I heard at the Refuge? Those guys plan their last words when they're our age, darn it. And you got that, in like, a line. Like you said—wrote, I guess. The air takes the words, and you can't get 'em back, so you look up the next day and try findin' em again. If you're lucky, you do. That's what happens!"

"Wow. Well—thanks."

"No problem, 'cause it's true. So…ready to hawk some headlines?"

"You know it."

"Okay, I'll be there as soon as I stash the journal and pen—oh, crud. Look at that." Crutchie wiped at an ink smudge on the side of her nose.

"Keep it. Customers might think it's cute, buy some extra."

Newsies' Square

"Davey, look!" Les pointed while he, Jack, Crutchie, and Davey approached the Square together. "It's Kath-a-rine!" He made kissy noises.

"Real mature, Jacobs. Dave, when you gonna do somethin' about that kid?"

Crutchie gave Les a firm-yet-understanding look. "Leave it alone, Les. One day you'll like a girl, and then you'll understand."

"Never! Girls got cooties. Uh, I mean, most girls."

"Nice save, buster. Mornin', Katherine."

"Hey, Crutchie. Glad I caught you before the gate opened. I have something for you, and Davey too, when he gets here."

"What is it?" Davey asked.

Katherine pulled a sheet of newsprint from her reticule. "My editor turned down my request for a series on female child labor in the city. In fact…" She pursed her lips. "He called it a sentimental idea, smacking of female emotionalism and borderline hysteria. But I wrote it anyway, to show you I wasn't spinning fairytales. And Davey, thanks again for setting up the meeting with Sarah."

"Glad to help, this once. Sarah's not the type to get involved in something like your series. Then again, she never fit in much better than I did, so—thanks."

Crutchie skimmed the article, went back and tried to absorb as much as possible with the minutes she had. "Wow, Katherine. This is pretty good. And—yeah, Sarah Jacobs, right there. 'We are honored to serve our cities and support our families, yet not at the expense of being treated as less than human or feminine.' She sounds like you, Davey. You both got great brains."

"Sarah may have too many brains for her own good," Davey said. "My parents only agreed to the interview because they thought the publicity would help feed our family. Which, I did sell better than any day so far yesterday, but…"

"Don't worry about it. Sarah did great. Um, Katherine, can I—could I keep this?"

"I want you to. And—well, when Sarah heard I knew you, she mentioned Davey had…she's dying to meet you, but there's never been a good time. Could Sarah and I maybe—come get you at the lodging house next weekend for a free concert or lecture or something? I'd make it this weekend, but…" She flushed, glanced over at Jack. "I'm—going to Medda's."

"Ahhhh." Crutchie nodded. "Yeah, next weekend's fine. If you survive."

"Just put in a good word for me, won't you?" Katherine pointed skyward.

"Sure will. St. Agnes is patron for girls, and I guess that means girls datin' know-it-alls like Jack. You could try askin' her for extra help. St. Anne, too—that was Mother Mary's mom."

"Agnes and Anne, got it. I'll need a whole troop of ladies on my side."

"Wow, what a headline!" Les ran into the thick of the square, older and younger newsies mingling. "Hey, youse guys! Jack and Katherine finally got a date!"

"Papes for the newsies! Hot off the presses, fresh new price and all!"

New price? Crutchie tossed a wave at Katherine and hurried toward the gate, but got pushed back in the crush. Her brothers' grumbles helped her piece the story together.

"They raised it by a dime? I could eat two days on a dime!"

"Uh, I can't afford that."

"Yeah, right!"

"Aw, come on!"

"I'll be sleepin' on the street!"

"You already sleep on the street."

"Yeah, in a worse neighborhood!"

Jack made his way to the front of the line. "Hey Weasel, what's the deal with this?" He jammed his finger toward the circulation gate board, where indeed a new price was written—sixty cents per a hundred newspapers, plus the same price back for those unsold.

"I don't make the rules, Kelly. That's Pulitzer's new price, you take it or you leave it."

"Leave it. C'mon everybody, we're goin' to the Journal."

Another newsie met them halfway down the block. "Don't waste your time. Price is the same here. And the Post, and the Sun."

More frustration, cussing, and spitting followed. Crutchie slipped to the back of the crowd and did some lightning math in her head. She might be okay for a few days, but at these prices, plus the rent, plus the inevitably of her leg actin' up, considerin' she'd have to walk further to sell a more expensive pape… No, she wasn't gonna make it. And Denton might float her along for like, a week, but he wouldn't help her the way he would able-bodied newsboys who could just get some other job any old place. Couldn't. Heck, the man wasn't runnin' no crip charity. Only place that was… Pulitzer had just signed her death warrant.

Gorge crowded her throat, and her stomach flipped over. She might've retched into the gutter, until Kurt found her in the crowd, tugged on her hand. "Crutchie, we can't pay that. Freddy and me, we can go back to the Lutheran church, but they'll just split us up. So then we'd hafta go to the Refuge."

Crutchie swallowed, straightened her glasses and her spine. How dare she be so selfish? "We'll figure somethin'," she said. "Nobody's goin' anyplace unless it's back home, you hear me?" Well, for tonight at least. And maybe a few after. Beyond that—well, she'd keep her boys out of Snyder's web if she had to stow them under the Brooklyn Bridge and pick through rags the rest of her life.

"Hey! Hey, shaddup and listen a minute!" Jack was shouting now, up on the original newsboy statue in the square. "We ain't gotta take this! Pulitzer and Hearst, they think they got us! Do they got us?"

A few "no's" came back, but most of the crowd muttered in uncertainty and shock.

"They think we's a bunch of gutter rats, that we don't stick together. Yeah, we stab each other in the back, 'cause that's who we are, but we ain't them. We don't do people dirty for money. We don't step on each other to get ahead!"

Crutchie gripped her crutch, signaled the two little ones. "Come on." She tapped a few shoulders, and Henry, Finch, Specs, and a few others let her through 'til she was up front, next to Race, Davey, and some of the other older boys. Jack was still talking, but had paused, leaning down to Davey.

"So what if we ain't got hats or badges, we's a union just by sayin' so! Pulitzer and Hearst, they gotta respect…respect the rights of the workin' boys of New York!"

"Ah-heh-hem!" Crutchie put in. Jack looked down, grinned at her. "'Scuse me. The rights of the workin' kids of New York!"

A slight cheer went up, and the rest of the crowd started to murmur, respond. Jack turned to Davey and Crutchie. "What the heck's respect mean? What do I tell 'em?"

"You—you tell them Pulitzer and Hearst can't treat us like this," Davey said. "That—we'll work with them, even for them, but we're not their slaves."

"Crutch, you got anything?"

"I…" Her voice left her. But then she remembered. Remembered Wiesel—who was a weasel, if she were honest—overcharging her for papes for months, just because she was a girl, and disabled. Then covering it all up with that "gold saleswoman," "honey" "sweetie" talk. Remembered how he all but called her a cheat. Even remembered Jack taking her crutch like she didn't really need it, making remarks about her getting rid of it, like she could just decide to one day.

"You tell them, this isn't fair to any of us. Especially when some of us gotta work twice as hard to get what most folks do just 'cause they're alive. You tell 'em Pulitzer and Hearst think they can find the weak links in the chain and break 'em—well, you mess with one of us, even the littlest or the ones with brown on their skin or crutches in their hands or whatever, you mess with all of us."

Jack nodded. "Hey, we got ourselves a writer." He addressed the crowd. "Some of us, we gotta work twice as hard to get what the other guy gets just 'cause he's alive—and now Pulitzer and Hearst, they wanna steal that, too! They been lookin' around all this time, tryin' to find a black kid, or a crip kid, or the poorest of the poor—weak links. They can't lock us all up, so they wanna break us. Can they do that?"

"No!" Crutchie raised her voice, knowing a feminine one would carry. It did, and others joined hers now.

"Pulitzer and Hearst, they think they got us! Do they got us?"

"NO!" Now the whole crowd was in on it, and what began as a couple shouts was a coordinated scream.

"That bell rings tomorrow morning, we gonna hear it?"

"NO!"

"Hey, but what's to stop other newsies from just comin' down here and sellin' our papes?" Specs spoke up.

"I'll talk to 'em, tell 'em to join us."

"Some of them others don't hear so good, know what I mean?"

"Well, we'll soak 'em!" Jack shouted.

"No! Jack, we can't let blood run in the streets, it'll give us a bad name!" Davey warned.

"And who's to say it'll make a difference?" Finch asked. "Remember the trolley strike? Half them guys is laid up with broke bones!"

"We ain't them," Jack insisted. "We stick together stronger than the trolley workers, they can't break us up. We can win this, just like the printin' press strikers a few years ago. Crutchie knows, she saw it, didn't ya?"

But Crutchie's confidence had wilted almost as soon as it bloomed, like an overwatered flower. The longer Jack held his ground, stirred up the crowd, talked about soakin' people, the more memories overtook her—especially the memory of a girl on 93rd Street. A daughter, not a son. The girl who watched New York break her daddy. She couldn't lose her friends, too.

"I did," she said now. "It's a real good idea, Jack. But—we ain't the trolley workers, just a buncha kids. Pulitzer's gonna laugh us outta Manhattan."

"But what about what you just said?" Henry challenged her. "You's right, they act like our lives are worth less than theirs! Don't we got rights, too?"

"Yeah. The right to starve," she said. "You, me, Specs, Finch, the little kids—all of us. What if we can't do this?"

"What if we can?" Jack fired at her. He grabbed her hand, and next thing, she was next to him, up on the statue, the world tilting.

"Jack…no…"

He threw his arm across her, so that she had her crutch as support on the right side, Jack on the left. The world tilted dangerously, and Jack steadied her. "I gotcha," he whispered. "Crutchie, we gonna win, we gonna need the girls, too. We gonna need everybody. I can't do this without you."

His words galvanized her, as if someone had taken a string running from her neck down her spine and pulled it. She straightened, becoming the Miss Carlotta Murphy Ma had seen in her, from schoolgirl to newsie to hospital patient. She nodded at Jack. "Then let's go get 'em."

"The world's gonna know, this ain't no game!" Jack was back to speech-making. "Not yet, but they will, and they're gonna pay!"

Cheers rocked Newsies' Square again, and Davey clambered up next to them. "Instead of hawking headlines, let's go make some today!"

"Their word ain't worth beans!"

"We're gonna break the will of mighty Bill and Joe!"

"We'll kick their rear!"

The newsies' enthusiasm had climbed to fever pitch. Crutchie's inner patient, her inner Refuge girl, screamed at her to stop this nonsense, get down off that statue and hobble her little legs home and lock herself in her room. Instead, she grabbed the line forming its inky brilliance in her head.

"And what we do today, guys? It's gonna be tomorrow's news!"

The other newsies half-shouted, almost sang in agreement. Papes hit the pavement fast and hard, black and white rustling hail. Shoes trampled them as newsies transitioned from sellin' to marchin' in the streets. Davey jumped down, grabbed Les, and spun him around before they joined the march. Jack took a look at the headline board and winked at Crutchie.

"Is it official?"

"I'd sure say it is."

"Then let's go!" He swung her onto his back as if she were a single pape, climbed the ladder to the board, and scrawled STRIKE in huge letters across the daily headline before jumping into a throng of newsies and setting Crutchie down again. Within seconds, Katherine ran up to her.

"That was incredible! You, Jack, Davey—the newsies just might win this thing."

"Maybe—but, you know. I won't be able to go with you and Sarah this weekend. Money and all."

"Hey, what are stuffy lectures and concerts when you've got Newsies' Square? I've got a story to write!"

"Sounds like Katherine's on our side," Jack told Crutchie and Davey once the excitement died down and they headed home. "Which is great. She can help spread the story."

"And in the meantime, we can make sure we do this thing right, so Pulitzer can't ignore us," Davey added.

"Yeah, we should make sure our words are the best." Crutchie put her hand to her forehead.

"You all right?" Jack came alongside her. "I got carried away, didn't I? You oughta get home, rest…"

"Are you kiddin'? That was—I never dreamed I could do somethin' like that. That people would care what I said. But…Jack, did I do the right thing? Have I lost my mind? Have we all lost our ever-lovin' newsie minds?"

"Well, if we did—what a way to go!"