Disclaimer: All of the newsies and other characters from the movie belong to Disney. All original characters belong to me.

A/N: I know, I know...I haven't updated for a LONG time...I was in Boston...and then at my grandparents' house for a week...and then I was just plain procrastinating...sorry! Also, this chapter was difficult to write, so I'd really appreciate reviews and constructive criticism! Thanks!

A/N 2: Because of FF.net's new pen-name policy, my name is now Seraph2. (Or, as I like to think of it, Seraph the Second.)

Shout-outs!

Legs: Thanks for reviewing this story and The One Man Left Awake! Here's what happens to Racetrack...

MsJonyReb: That's an interesting suggestion...maybe Davey WILL return...I'm not sure yet... Anyway, thanks for the review!

Warning: This chapter could be considered disturbing, and if you would prefer not to read it, please skip this chapter. I'll try to upload chapter four soon.

* In 1907, eight years after the strike, around five o'clock in the evening. *

Racetrack Higgins knocked softly on the lodging house door, praying that no one would answer, and yet hoping beyond hope that they would. Despite his fervent wishes, there was no reply to his knock. Sighing determinedly, he opened the door and strolled around the lobby. It was abandoned for the day; the newsies busy selling their papers and Kloppman running an errand somewhere.

Racetrack wandered over to a table in the back corner of the lobby, lifting up one of its chairs. He turned the chair over, and his lips stretched into a quavering smile. There, just below the back, left-hand leg, was his name, etched into the wood with a pocketknife. This had been his chair, his table. The table where every night, no matter what, poker was played. Where cards were dealt, bets were placed, and money was lost and won. Usually, the money was won by Racetrack, a few extra cents every night to help him make ends meet. Racetrack sighed, wishing he had that kind of stability in his life now.

He turned toward the lodging house staircase, a flimsy wooden structure that had withheld the pounding footfalls of adolescent boys for decades. Racetrack could clearly remember his days as a newsie, with Jack as his leader, when he would dash down the steps every morning, ready to con Weasel out of another two bits so that he could place his customary bet at the tracks. Then came Race's own days as a leader, when he was always the first person down the staircase, guiding his newsies to another day of profitable sales. Now, Racetrack climbed deliberately up the staircase, savoring each step, every creak of that faithful, well-worn construction.

At the top of the stairs, he entered the bunkroom. As always, it was filled with fragile wooden bunks, topped with hard mattresses and thin sheets that did little to keep off the cold during New York's harsh winter months. And yet, the newsies had rarely complained about such hardships. Overall, they had been happy with what they had, glad to sleep under a roof instead of on the streets, to be surrounded by friends instead of enemies. Racetrack, too, had been happy. Even his graduation from the life of a newsie, the day he turned Manhattan's leadership over to Boots and entered adulthood, had been bittersweet, tainted by the thought of leaving the newsie camaraderie behind.

Now, Racetrack realized that he never should have left. Sure, Boots had been a good leader, strong yet sympathetic, alert and compassionate. It was Boots who had the idea to start a sort of memorial for past newsie leaders on one wall of the bunkroom. There a card, the king of hearts, hung from a nail, commemorating the years of Race's gambling, generous leadership. And, on a nail to its left, hung a length of rope, a reminder of Jack's cowboy days and his famous rope-twirling tricks.

Racetrack, though, had a different use for the rope. Slowly, reverently, he lifted it from its hook. It felt wrong, somehow, to remove a memorial for such an awful purpose, but Race knew, somewhere inside him, that Jack would understand. Jack, of all people, would sympathize with Race, would know how hard it was to live an existence full of despair and lost dreams, hopes from another life, washed away by time and the heavy hand of reality.

Holding the rope, Racetrack walked slowly to the windowsill, thinking of the past few years, of his severe life after he had left the newsies. He had found a good job at the races, caring for the award-winning horses there. But even with this new source of income, Racetrack had placed more bets than he could pay off, and, slowly, he was pulled into a never-ending spiral of debt. Debt that had the Manhattan police on his trail, debt that made him quit his job, run from the tracks...run here. Run to the only home he could ever count on.

And Race knew what he had to do. He couldn't stay here, couldn't accept the pity and charity of the newsies, young men who had once looked up to him as a teacher and mentor, yet he couldn't return to the crowds of Manhattan. He was no longer an honorable New York citizen, he would be thrown in the pen the instant a bull spotted him. So, there was only one thing to do.

Racetrack Higgins stepped carefully onto the windowsill of the bunkroom, lifting the rope above his head and tying it securely to a rafter. Then he stepped back down and tied a loop at the other end. He slid the loop purposefully over his head, unable to turn back now. And, taking one final, deep breath, he jumped over the windowsill, feeling the rope burn as it tightened around his neck, squeezing his eyes shut in the desperate prayer that death would come quickly.

PLEASE READ: Please, if you or someone you know is considering suicide, get help! I know you have heard this before, but I'm serious. Suicide is not the answer. So many people care about you, and you have so much of your life left to live. The world isn't ready for you to leave us yet.