"Can I help you, Miss?" an old man behind the desk called as I scanned the room.

"Well, well, what have we here?" a short Italian piped up, nursing a cigar near the stairwell.

The newsie that I recognized as Dutchy from that afternoon slapped the Italian on the back of the head. "Give it a rest Race."

"Ma'am?" The old man prompted.

"Oh." I walked up to the counter. "I was wondering if you could help me find someone."

"I can sure try. What's his name?"

"Gabriel Thatcher," I replied.

An apologetic look painted his face. "I'm sorry, miss. I ain't never heard that name."

I bit my lip in disappointment. "Well, thank you anyway."

"Wait just a second," he continued when he saw the look on my face. "Let me ask the boys."

He turned to the ever-growing crowd of newsies in the lobby. "Boys, this young lady is looking for somebody named Gabriel Thatcher. That ring a bell to any of you?"

"What business you got with him?" Race asked, stepping to the front of the group.

I narrowed my eyes at him. "My business is my own. I am simply asking if you know the name."

"In that case," Race replied with a smug smile. "I'm afraid that we can't help you."

"I see. I'll be on my way then." I soberly turned and walked out the door.

I was a block down the street when I heard someone calling after me. "Miss! Hey! Wait up, will ya?"

Hesitantly, I turned to see two newsies running toward me. One, I immediately recognized as Specs, the newsie who sold me a paper that afternoon. The other, a tall brunette who wore a red bandana around his neck, was the first to speak. "Please, miss, come back inside. We'll help you find your friend."

"Oh, so now you think that you can help me," I spat in frustration. "What about your little Italian friend?"

Specs flashed a slight smile. "Don't worry about Race. He's just protective is all."

"In our line of work, that's important," the other newsie added. "But I think that we can trust you. I'm Jack Kelley."

"It's nice to meet you, Mr. Kelley. I'm Belinda Spencer."

"Call me Jack." He smiled, his eyes dancing. "Well, Belinda, our help is yours if you still want it."

"Hey Cowboy," Specs interrupted. "We better get to Tibby's if we're going to make it in time for dinner."

Jack nodded and turned to me. "Why don't you join us? We'll start searchin there."

We started down the street, getting only a few blocks before Jack stopped again. "There I go forgettin my manners again. Belinda, this is Specs." He motioned to the boy beside him.

Specs flushed. "We already met, Jack."

Jack raised his eyebrows at him, but said nothing.

When we arrived at the diner, it seemed like every newsie in the city was there. The three of us squished around an already crowded table.

"So when would this boy, Gabriel, have started?" Jack began.

"About six years ago, I would guess."

"Sorry to burst your bubble, sweetheart, but most of these boys weren't around back then," Race spoke up, more sincere than earlier. "There are only a few of us in Manhattan that have been here that long."

"Well, that's a start then, isn't it?" I asked hopefully.

Race shot me a sad smile. "Sorry, sweety, but he ain't in Manhattan. Don't worry, there's tons of boroughs. There's no tellin where he might have ended up. If he even made it this long."

My heart sank and I began to feel tears welling up in the corners of my eyes.

"So it really is hopeless," I murmured, more to myself than to anyone else. When I realized that everyone was staring at me, I politely excused myself.

Outside on the street, the cool air stung my eyes. I was glad to finally be feeling something again, even if it was discomfort.

"Belinda?" Specs appeared beside me, holding out a napkin. "Are you alright?"

I nodded, dabbing the moist corners of my eyes.

He frowned at the tears that had escaped capture and were streaming down my cheeks. "Hey, please don't cry. Just cause no one in Manhattan knows your friend, doesn't mean we're gonna give up. We've got friends. We'll find him. You just gotta have hope."

"Sometimes that's easier said than done."

He shrugged. "In our line of work, hope it all that we have. Come on, it's gettin late. Let me walk you home."

When we got to my front porch, he tipped his brimmed hat. "Goodnight, Miss Spencer."

"Goodnight, Specs. And thank you for the escort."

He nodded and started down the street.

"Oh, and Specs," I called after him, "you can call me Belinda."

He turned back with a smile. "Meet us at Tibby's tomorrow, at noon."

I retuned his grin. "Alright."

He nodded and waved before turning down the street and disappearing into the darkness.