Sparks and Angelfish-Yay! Spot is coming back!

Slumber came sparsely to Spot that night as they lay in Autumn's bed, watching the lightning illuminate the room and the raindrops from shadows on the wall. Autumn had gotten to sleep easily from all the stress and was soundly snoozing on his chest. Spot rested his head against the pillow with one arm around Autumn, and the other stroking her arm that was so affectionately laying on his stomach. Not one wink of sleep came to him. All he could think about was the note left on the door. Don't send your bitch boys to the Bronx. What happened to Bolt and Thompson? And Johnny and Glover, the other two that had accompanied them? A thought occurred to him: he should have gone down with them, just as he should have gone down with PJ. Spot closed his eyes for the first time and tried to relax his mind.

I'm sure they're fine, Conlon.

Yeah, right. When has anyone ever come back "fine" from the Bronx?

Go to sleep. Deal with it in the morning.

Spot listened to his last thought. Deal with it in the morning. He drifted off into a much-needed doze and did not open his eyes.

After hardly any hours of sleep, Spot despairingly blinked open his eyes to find that the rain had stopped outside. It was still dark, yet the barely yellow sky in the east proved that it was almost dawn. The two had not moved an inch in their sleeping positions. Autumn was still fast asleep and breathing evenly. Spot rubbed his eyes hard and yawned. It was obvious he would not be able to fall back to slumber, and ever so gently he placed Autumn on the sheets of the bed and got up. His pants were still damp as he buttoned up his shirt, complete with a mended hole on the shoulder. He placed his cold hat on his mess of hair and stepped into his boots. Just as he was about to leave the room, he went over and sat at the edge of the bed.

"Autumn," he whispered as he nudged her shoulder.

She rolled over and opened her eyes.

"I gotta go."

"Already? What time is it?" she sat up, surprised.

"I think it's around five. But don't worry, I'll see you later."

Autumn looked at him. "Okay..."

Spot unfastened his key necklace and took it off his neck. Without saying anything, he took her hand and placed it in her palm.

Autumn looked at the key, then back at him, puzzled. "But-"

"I want you to have it."

"Okay." She looked at the mysterious trinket. It reminded her of the time he saved her from the river when she was delivering it to him. She kissed him and dropped her head back down to the pillow.

The sun struggled to peak over the city buildings as Spot trudged through puddles with his hands deep in his pockets. It was almost completely dark as the day was just beginning. His head was low and he kicked pebbles out of his way on the sidewalk on his way to the lodging house. The only thing he wanted to see was the fact that Bolt, Thomspon, Johnny, and Glover were in their beds sleeping soundly. They had to have come home last night. Meetings never go into the following morning. Unless something happened.

No. Stop thinking like that.

He quickened his pace, eager to see if his hopes were fulfilled and his four friends were safely at home.

Vendors set up in the market for the day and store owners prepared to opened their businesses. Factory workers and children traipsed their way to work, a horrid place to spend the day. As he crossed the street, he found Jackson, a newsie few years younger than he, coming out of an apartment building. He picked up into a jog and made his way toward him.

"Jackson!" he called, successfully getting his attention.

The fourteen-year old boy turned around and blinked at the approaching fellow newsie. He did not say anything.

"Hey," Spot greeted.

"Hey," Jackson responded in a flat tone. It was clear he was displeased with the way his so-called leader had been acting lately, and he wasn't the only one.

"You heard anything?" Spot queried, fighting the temptation of punching him square in the mouth for being so disrespectful.

Jackson squinted at him. "Don't ya think you would know before me? I mean, you're the leader."

The cutting sarcasm in his tone made the anger in Spot deepen. "Well, do ya know if they made it home last night?"

"Don't think they did. I was there real late last night and didn't see 'em."

Panic rose up in Spot and clutched itself around his throat. Without saying bye, he took off down the sidewalk and sprinted to the lodging house.

If something happens, this is your entire fault. This is your entire doing. His feet simply could not keep up with his racing thoughts. The worst-case scenarios kept replaying in his mind. He would find out they were dead and he would have to live with even more guilt. No, no. That didn't happen.

One block to go. His calves burned from the speed at which he was running. Beads of perspiration formed at the top of his forehead and the back of his neck formed a cold sweat. His cane smacked his hip and his slingshot moved around in his pocket. The wind blew back his hat and he did not stop to get it back.

The lodging house was coming into view. Spot's breathing picked up and the breeze whipping his face stole any oxygen he could gather. A cramp formed in his stomach from all of the running and lack of food. Almost there, almost there. A few more feet. Faster, faster. What he saw stole any breath he would ever have for a good minute.

Two figures lay against the brick building, brittle, crushed, weak, horrid, and fragile. He stepped toward them and his suspicions were confirmed. Bolt and Thompson had been beaten to practically the verge of death. Not a clean spot was visible on them; if they weren't bloody, they were bruised. They were pounded to the point of no recognition, but Spot knew that in his heart it was his pair of most trusted and loyal friends, even if his mind refused to believe it.

Tears welled in his eyes, something that would only happen on very rare occasion, as he knelt down next to them. Bolt was in an odd position in which he was curled up, knees curved, arms twisted, and head against the ground. His swollen eyes were shut and his bloody lips were closed. Scrapes and cuts lined his arms and legs, and were only visible through the holes in his clothes. Through one gap of clothing, in particular, on his arm, a deep bloody score in the shape of a "B" with an "X" through it was visible. Thompson lay opposite him, in a somewhat similar place. He, too, was severely trodden. Lacerations covered his body accompanied with welts and bruises. Spot did not want to know what kind of hell they must have gone through. But, he noticed their chests were still moving, yet only barely.

Rampant hot tears flowed down his cheeks as he stood up. He beat his fist against the brick and threw any objects close in proximity to the ground. He had never felt more hatred toward anyone in his entire life. Fury raged through his veins even though the sight of his two friends chilled him to the bone. He felt as though the air supply was being shut off and a strong hold latched itself around his throat. His mind was spinning. His vision was blurry. His body ached from clenching it so hard.

Slightly audible sobs escaped from his mouth as he plopped down to the ground next to the poor victims of Pierce, PJ. He grasped the roots of his hair with tension.

"Spot," a scratchy, miniscule voice came from Thompson.

He opened his eyes and peered down at him, grateful that Thompson was alive. "Oh, my, god...what happened? What did they fucking do to you?!" he demanded.

Thompson slowly lifted his heavy head and made his way up to a sitting position, using the wall as leverage. "They kept Johnny...and Glover..." he squeaked.

Spot broke down even more and pounded the ground with his fist. "What happened?"

"We tried...talking to Pierce and them...they didn't listen...didn't give us a chance..." Thompson coughed insanely. "First they took Johnny and Glover. One grabbed me from behind...Bolt tried to fight 'em off, but he got the worst out of everyone."

Spot clenched his fist and brought it up to his mouth, biting down hard on his tongue and looking at Bolt.

"We didn't go down without a fight, Spot...ya gotta know that. Brooklyn boys nevah go down without a fight..."

Thompson's words were weak but powerful. They were true. Thompson began hyperventilating and clutched his chest with a broken hand. "We gotta get him upstairs, Spot. He's almost dead..."

Spot nodded and helped Thompson to his feet. It was obvious that he was in less of a wretched state than Bolt was in. With sorrow and hope and regret, they picked up Bolt by his knees and arms to carry him upstairs to his bunk. Spot did not speak.