Though Bumlet's tension was nearly palpable now, making Dutchy wonder how he'd managed to stay so calm before, the short walk to Medda's was uneventful. As always, strolling under the large billboard with Medda's image on it felt like coming home – a strange kind of home and a stranger kind of mother, to be sure, but it was someplace all the newsies knew that they were always welcome.

When they walked into the theater, Medda was onstage rehearsing a new song and dance routine. Rather than disturb her, Dutchy and Bumlets quietly sat down in the back row, always happy to see her perform, even if her hair was pinned back into a simple bun, rather than her customary ringlets, and her dress was white linen and sweat-soaked.

Listening to Medda sing of lost loves and trying again was nothing new to Dutchy; he nodded to the rhythm and drummed his fingers lightly against the seat in front of him. However, when that song ended, and her routine was over, she kept singing quietly to herself. At first, the words weren't clear, but her voice gradually swelled in volume until both boys could hear her easily.

Dutchy stared at the ground, his face twisted, his nails digging into his palms. What she was singing was no high-energy, kick-up-your-heels song. It was a lullaby, and he recognized it.

He remembered his mother standing over the bed he shared with his siblings, her hair the same shining color as his, and singing these same words. He remembered how she'd stumbled over the unfamiliar sounds of the English language, but she'd kept singing, determined to master the language of her new home. When she would inevitably laugh and sheepishly admit defeat, she would nonetheless keep humming the tune quietly, calmly, until the last of her children had drifted off to sleep. Kristoff's favorite part, in fact, had been the humming, knowing that it would hang in the air until he could no longer keep his eyes open.

"Dutchy? Bumlets? Is that you?"

He looked up. Medda had stopped singing and was now squinting in their direction, a hand held up to shield her face from the strong stage lights.

Dutchy cleared his throat. "Yeah, Medda, it's us."

She smiled up at them. "I knew it had to be you two! No two other boys in Manhattan have hair in quite the same colors as you. Come down here and say hello to your old friend Medda, boys! You don't need to sit way back there." They stood up and walked down the steps to where Medda was waiting with open arms to give them hugs and affectionate kisses on the cheeks. "I haven't seen either of you in... Well, it must be weeks by now! What's been keeping all you boys so busy?"

"Business has been pretty good lately," Bumlets said, "so we'se all been sellin' like crazy. Most of us ain't had the time to stick 'round after the performances to say hi."

"Well, I'm glad business is good, but forgive me for saying that I wish that it was a little less good, so my boys could stop by more." She laughed. "Anyhow, what can I do for you two?"

"We need some help, Medda," Dutchy said. "Bumlets is in trouble, and he needs a place to hide for a while."

"Of course you can stay," she exclaimed. "What's happened?"

Bumlets started to speak, but Dutchy cut him off. "Long story short, clowns wanna kill Bumlets, and I'se gonna need to convince everyone that he's dead."

To Medda's credit, she took it in stride. "Everyone? The other boys too?"

"Especially the other boys," Dutchy replied firmly. "We can't have anyone knowin' that he ain't dead."

"I understand," Medda said. She paused, deep in thought. "The best place to stay would be the green room."

"What's that?" Bumlets asked tensely.

"It's the room where I keep all my costumes and do my changing. I could bring you food twice a day, Bumlets. Would that be all right?"

"Yeah," Bumlets answered slowly. "I guess so."

She nodded. "I'll go see if I can find you a cot and blanket. Wait here, boys." Walking quickly, she disappeared behind the red velvet curtains. Soon, rummaging sounds could be heard from backstage.

"You sure you can do this, Dutchy?" Bumlets asked. "Make everyone believe I'se dead, that is."

Dutchy shrugged. "Why wouldn't I be able to?"

"You ain't exactly an actor. When you try to lie, you get a nervous grin on your face."

"What's that?" Dutchy asked sharply. "How'd you know that?"

Bumlets looked down, refusing to meet Dutchy's gaze. "I jus' notice things," he mumbled.

Dutchy looked at Bumlets, silently wondering, but all he said was, "Don't worry. I can do it." He paused. "In fact, I got an idea."

"...What?"

Dutchy reached down and pulled his small knife from his boot. Flourishing it, he said, "You can use this to cut your arm. If I'se gonna convince people, some blood would make it lots more convincin'."

Bumlets stared at Dutchy speechlessly. Dutchy felt his cheeks going a dull red. To mask it, he pulled his cap further down on his head and crossed his arms.

"What?" he asked.

Bumlets shook his head. "There's somethin'... very wrong with you."

"Because I carry a knife? Lots of guys carry knives," Dutchy replied defensively.

"....It ain't the knife," Bumlets mumbled.

"Then what?" Without waiting for an answer, Dutchy flipped the knife end over end towards Bumlets, who caught it deftly. "It don't have to be a deep cut. Jus' enough to bleed some."

Bumlets sighed pathetically. "Fine. If that's what it takes..." He slowly rolled up his faded blue sleeve and set the knife against his skin.

Luckily for him, though, Medda walked back onto the stage at that moment and, seeing the knife against Bumlets' dark arm, shrieked loudly. At the shrill sound, both Dutchy and Bumlets jumped, and Bumlets dropped the knife to clatter noisily on the floor.

"What are you doing?" Medda exclaimed.

Dutchy gestured, feeling unaccountably foolish. "We was gonna... I mean... If I had blood on me, it'd be more convincin'."

"You're making him cut himself?" she asked in horror. "Why didn't you just ask me for some stage blood?"

"Stage blood?" Bumlets said hopefully. "I don't gotta cut myself?"

"Of course not," she said reassuringly. "Just wait here and I'll go get some."

As she hurried off again, Bumlets glared accusingly at Dutchy, who coughed embarrassedly and bent down to retrieve his knife.

"It was a good idea," Dutchy said guiltily. "I jus' didn't think of stage blood." He shoved the knife back into his boot.

Medda returned quickly, carrying a large glass of red, syrupy liquid. "It was a good idea, Dutchy," she said, "but this will do just as well." Handing the glass over to him, she cautioned, "Don't use too much, all right? Your hands should be red, your arms a bit splattered, but don't be drenched. The human body doesn't hold that much blood."

"How d'you know all that?" Bumlets asked.

She grinned, for an instant looking almost as young as they. "When I was a student, back in Sweden, I wanted to be a doctor."

"Really? What happened?"

Medda shrugged. "Life took me in another direction. Come, Dutchy, let's get you bloody."

Five minutes later, Dutchy was ready to admit that Medda was much smarter than he was. His instinct would have been to splash the stage blood willy-nilly all over himself, but with Medda directing him as to where and how much to use it, he honestly looked like he'd tried to stem a tide of blood with his bare hands. When he looked into the mirror and saw the streaks of blood on his face, he felt physically ill. Glancing over at Bumlets' face, he saw the same revulsion and fear that he felt.

"It ain't real," he said quietly, repeating it for his own benefit. "It ain't real."

"You'd better get going, then, Dutchy," Medda said. "Don't worry about Bumlets. I'll look out for him."

Dutchy automatically stuck out his hand for Bumlets to shake, but quickly withdrew it, seeing the look on Bumlets face as he stared at his hand. He knew what Bumlets was thinking: that it could very easily have been his own blood staining Dutchy's fingers.

Looking down, Bumlets muttered, "Good luck, Dutchy. And thanks."

Dutchy nodded. "Yeah. It'll... it'll all be all right. Be careful."

There was no response, so Dutchy turned and started to walk away. He spun around, though at the sound of Bumlets' hesitant voice.

"Umm... Dutchy? Can I ask ya somethin'?"

"Yeah, go ahead," he responded, not sure why he wanted Bumlets to keep talking.

"Well... You'se Dutchy, right? Everyone calls you that. They always have, long as I can 'member, at least. So..." Bumlets scuffed his toe against the ground. "Why do they call you Dutchy when you ain't Dutch?"

Dutchy stared in surprise, for the first time noticing how Bumlets' hair kept flopping forward onto his forehead, despite his continuous efforts to slick it back. "No, I ain't Dutch," he said slowly, "but how'd you know that? I ain't never told where I came from."

"I grew up in a circus, Dutchy. I learned how to guess people's origins an' greet them in their own language... Made more money that way. Folks liked it." He shrugged. "You got blond hair, but you ain't Dutch. If I was to greet you, I'd probably say 'Guten tag.'"

"Yeah, that's right," Dutchy said slowly. "When I was little... My family spoke German."

Bumlets grinned, clearly enjoying the idea of knowing something secret. "So why're you Dutchy? Why didn't you correct 'em when they first started callin' you that?"

Dutchy grinned back at Bumlets. "No one ever asked."

And that was that. Dutchy turned around, took a deep breath, and, wiping the grin from his face, ran out the door.

Once he was out of sight of Bumlets and Medda, though, it became easy to believe that it wasn't a plot, that the red that stained his hands had really pumped from a fatal wound.

As he stumbled through the streets, passersby shied away from him, looking in horror at the blood streaked boy with the glasses. About halfway back to the Lodging House, he saw the three men they'd seen on the way to the restaurant. They were leaning against a wall, smoking and muttering to each other in low voices. As he passed, they looked up at him, and one of them murmured something to another. He was gratified to see that they pushed away from the wall and followed him cautiously.

By the time Dutchy ground to a halt in front of the Lodging House, his breath was coming in short rasps and his stomach felt like it was about to jump out of his body. Racetrack was the only newsie outside, calmly smoking a cigar and idly shuffling cards. He looked up, hearing footsteps approach, and the twinkle in his eye changed to alarm as he recognized Dutchy under the splatters of blood.

"Dutchy?!" he exclaimed. "Dutchy, what—"

"B—Bumlets!" Dutchy managed to gasp out. "They—I—"

Race jumped to his feet and caught Dutchy just as he stumbled. "Jack!" Racetrack yelled. "Jack, get out here!"

Newsies being naturally curious creatures, Jack wasn't the only one to appear. As the tall, lanky boy with the red bandanna helped Race get Dutchy to a sitting position, Blink and Mush peered out from behind the door. Within seconds, all of the boys were pouring from the doors of the Lodging House, all gathering around Dutchy and yelling, trying to figure out what was going on, why Dutchy was covered with blood, and whose blood it was.

"All right!" Jack yelled above the din of boyish voices. "Everyone, be quiet!" Though it took a moment, the inherent note of command in Jack's voice penetrated their worried minds, and they quieted down relatively quickly. "Dutchy," Jack said insistently, "What's happened?"

Dutchy shook his head, his dazed look only half-feigned. "I...I...They got Bumlets."

Immediately, the clamor of voices rose again. Jack had to yell even louder to get their attention back. Dimly, Dutchy noticed the three suited men hovering at the edge of the mob. They were listening intently, and he knew that this was the time to act.

"Dutchy!" Jack was shaking his shoulders. "Dutchy, who got Bumlets? What happened?"

"I don't know who... I just..." Dutchy stared down at his hands. "They – a knife – they killed him!"

For a few seconds, the air was utterly silent, as each and every newsie stared at Dutchy in shock and abject horror.

Racetrack was the first to snap out of his dismayed trance. He said quietly, but in a voice that no one who heard it could doubt its veracity, "When we find the bastards, we'se gonna kill 'em."

That opened the floodgates. Within seconds, every newsie was shouting at the top of his voice, speaking in tones of shock, horror, sadness, and vengeance, a cry that grew until it echoed through the street. Mush had tears in his eyes, Jake and Pie Eater were whispering to each other with grim looks on their faces, Les was out-and-out crying, and Skittery was staring at the ground, pulling his cap down low so no one could see his face.

None of them had had easy lives; their childhoods had been a mix of loss and fear, sleeping under benches, and running for their lives. They'd been given bad news before, but they'd never had to hear anything like this. One of their own, one of their family, was gone.

Dutchy stared at the ground, feeling the full force of guilt. It was his fault that this was happening. He tried to console himself with the fact that if he hadn't done this, then Bumlets would actually die. At least, this time, it wasn't for real.

Jack's face was pale and his eyes were shadowed, but he put his hand on Dutchy's shoulder and spoke in a strained voice, "Dutchy. Exactly what happened?"

Dutchy gestured helplessly. "We was walkin' together... Me an' Bumlets... and these guys... they came out from an alleyway. They shoved me, and then, and then..." He dragged a dirty sleeve across his eyes. "When I got up again, Bumlets was..." He choked. "He was lyin' on the ground bleedin', and the guys was runnin' away. An' all I could do was stand there."

Suddenly, inside Dutchy, a million ancient hurts rose up to close his throat.

All I could do was stand there.

In once second, he was Kristoff again, standing in front of the flaming wreckage of his life, unable to move, unable to cry out as everything he had known collapsed in a great burst of sparks and ash. Had they cried out? Had it hurt? In his mind's eye, he could see his mother, huddling in the corner, holding his little sisters tightly in her arms as the smoke rose. Delja was sniffling, hiding her round face in his mother's skirts, while Olenka was wailing at the top of her lungs. He saw his brother Zalek, trying to help his father fight the blaze, trying to be brave, but his pale face and frightened eyes showed him for what he was: an eight-year old boy who didn't want to die. In the end, he too ran to his mother's side, to spend his last moments clenched in her arms. And his father... His father wiped his sooty brow, his eyes red, beginning to choke, staring down on his wife and three of his four children, knowing he would give everything to save them, knowing that it was hopeless.

And outside, a small boy stood, his eyes filled with horror, too scared to even breathe.

All I could do was stand there.

Dutchy choked, his face twisting, his fists clenching. "I...I tried to stop the blood..." he tried to continue, "...but...but..." He no longer knew whether his grief was feigned or real, whether he was thinking of his family or of Bumlets, and why, in the name of everything holy, he was doing this. "I...I gotta get outta here," he managed.

Everyone was once again talking all at once, but he pulled away from them and fled inside. Vaguely, he noticed one of the men tapping a shell-shocked Swifty on the shoulder and asking him something. But then he was inside, running by Kloppman, who was sitting at his desk with his head bowed. Speeding up, he dashed up the stairs, into the bathroom, dropping to his knees, skidding to a stop with his head in the toilet bowl. He tried to take a breath, but instead, his stomach lurched, and he vomited. He kept retching until there was nothing left of his steak and mashed potatoes, and even then, he continued to dry heave.

Dutchy grasped the cool porcelain bowl, trying to banish the images of his family from his mind, trying to ignore the mental picture of his mother looking down at her children, nestled trustingly in her arms, tears of grief sliding down her cheeks, as she hugged them tighter, as though her love alone could protect them from a fiery death.

He laid his forehead against the base of the toilet, shuddering. His hair was plastered to his forehead, slick with sweat. He wanted to cry, to howl, to scream as he hadn't since that day, but he couldn't. He couldn't let himself. No matter what it cost him. Curling up in a ball, he stared off into space, fighting for air.

Suddenly, there were hands on his shoulders, gently pulling him to a sitting position, wiping his forehead with a cool cloth, pulling off his glasses.

"Who is it?" Dutchy croaked, his eyes cracked to slits. "Who's there?"

"Don't worry, Dutchy," a quiet voice said. "It's Mush an' Snoddy. We wanna help."

Guilt again surged up inside Dutchy. They thought Bumlets was dead. How could he tell them that he was thinking about his family? How could he—

He struck out blindly with his fists. "Go away!" he said in a strangled voice. "Go away!" Dutchy's fists didn't connect with anything; he lost his balance and went sprawling to the ground again.

"Please, Dutchy," said the voice he recognized as Snoddy. "Let us help? We'se gonna help you lie down, yeah?"

"I wasn't supposed to...supposed to..." His fight gone, Dutchy let them pick him up and support him. They gently walked him over to his bed and helped him lie down.

He could hear the two of them speaking in murmurs, but he paid no attention to their words. What had he been thinking? This whole thing had been his dumb idea. And poor Bumlets, sitting alone in the green room at Irving Hall, terrified that at any moment, he was going to be killed.

Mush and Snoddy took good care of him: they cleaned off the blood, as well as cleaning off his glasses and hair. Though he put up a weak fight, they pulled off his outer layer of clothes, leaving him in his long johns. He wouldn't have admitted it, but knowing that he was no longer drenched in his guilt and deception made him feel a little more at ease.

He knew that other boys came in, speaking quietly amongst themselves, but none of them bothered him. Of that, at least, he was glad. He didn't want to talk to anyone. He wanted to curl up and die.

Gradually, consciousness began to recede. He sighed, curling up on his side, happy that this day was finally, at long last, ending.