The flames leapt and danced in front of his eyes. He reached out, as though he could grasp his family through the fiery veil and pull his family to safety. However, before he could reach through, his hand again dropped to his side, as a howl of despair finally ripped from his throat and he fell to his knees.

"Why?" he yelled. "It's been eleven years! Why do I gotta start seein' this now?" His hands splayed against the cement, shaking. "I ain't a religious man, God," he whispered, "but please, please, let me wake up." Nothing happened. "Let me wake up, goddammit!" he yelled, getting angry now. "I ain't perfect, but I don't deserve this!" His hands curled into fists and he started pounding them against the cement, ignoring the heat that blasted against his face. "Let me out!"

"Kristoff..." he heard through the crackle of flames. "Kristoff..."

He glanced up, his eyes wide, looking around, but he was totally alone. There wasn't another person in sight, but still he heard his old name, floating on the wind.

"Kristoff..."

"What's going on?" Dutchy shouted. "I ain't Kristoff anymore! I'se Dutchy, and I got to live my own life without you hauntin' me!"

"Come here, Kristoff..." came the whisper in German. "Come join us..."

"No! You're dead and I ain't. It ain't my fault!"

Ever so slowly, a spectral hand reached out from the inferno to beckon to him. As he watched in horror, the shape of his mother coalesced in the flames. "You belong with us, Kristoff," she whispered. "It won't hurt. Just take my hand, mein kleines kind. It'll be all right then."

"N—no!" Dutchy slammed his eyes shut, praying that the vision would go away when he opened them again. But he whimpered as he opened them again and his mother still beckoned to him reassuringly. "I can't!" Despite his words, tears came to his eyes at the sight of her, reaching out to him.

"Oh, mein kind, I've missed you so... I worried so for you, left all alone in the world, with no mutter or vater to take care of you."

"Mama..." he murmured, almost against his will. "Oh, mama. Why did you leave me?"

"It wasn't by choice, Kristoff. But all that can be fixed, now that you're here. Please, suesses kind, my darling child, please take my hand."

His hand wavered. She looked at him as though her heart were breaking. "Mama, I can't. I got a life here. I got friends...people who care 'bout me. I can't go and desert them!"

"We're all here... Your father, your brother, your sisters, and me... Please, Kristoff, time is short! Please!"

Slowly, drawn on by her despairing tone, he lifted his hand. Placing it in hers, he was surprised to find that it felt solid, closing lovingly around his own. She smiled at him.

"Oh, Kristoff, how I've waited..."

Ever so slowly, she started to draw him forwards, closer and closer to the fire. The heat blasted against his face, blowing his hair back from his forehead. Even the metal frames of his glasses began to heat uncomfortably, until, hissing in pain, he lifted his free hand and knocked them off. Immediately, his vision went fuzzy, but he was still getting closer and closer to the flames.

"Mama," he said hesitantly, then more stridently as it grew hotter. "Mama! I don't know if I can—" His words broke off as his mother turned her head to look at him. Even without his glasses, he could see the sweet smile on her face transforming to something malevolent.

"You thought you could go away and leave us all alone," she hissed, her grip on his hand turning to iron. "We were burning to death, and you just stood there and watched."

"What could I have done?!" he screamed. "Let me go!"

Suddenly, there was another grip around his wrist. It belonged to his littlest sister, Olenka, who was not yet old enough to speak, but who glowered at him with real hatred in her eyes.

"Please," he begged, "please, no..."

His father's large hand wrapped around his left arm and pulled him forward.

"Oh, Gott in himmel," he pled, not even sure what language he was speaking, far beyond caring.

When he glanced down, his brother and remaining sister, Delja and Zalek, had reached out from the inferno to grasp his ankles. They stared up at him, their faces accusing.

"It ain't my fault!" he screamed as the implacable grips of his family pulled him into the flames, and god, how it hurt. How it burned and flame licked through him, torturing him blinding him stabbing him through the heart and sucking him dry as he melted skin dripping from his bones bones crumbling into dust as he screamed and screamed and

screamed, sitting straight up in bed. His heart felt like it was about to pound straight out his chest.

"Dutchy? Dutchy, it's all right! You'se all right!"

He looked around and at first glance, his bed seemed to be surrounded by dark, ominous shapes, nebulous forms reaching out to him. He recoiled, but then the face of one of them came into focus.

Dutchy blinked. "Ich kenne sie..." he whispered. "Ich denke, daß ich habe."

There was a murmuring around him, and the one he'd recognized said, "Dutchy, can ya talk in English? I don't know what you'se sayin'."

He shook his head, his mind a blank, but managed to stammer out, "I...I know you, right?" Reaching up a trembling hand to slick back his hair, he found that he was soaked in sweat.

"Yeah, you know me," the boy looking at him said quietly. "It's Racetrack, remember? You was havin' a dream."

"A dream?" Dutchy rubbed his eyes, the shapes around his bed coming into slightly better focus. They were all other boys, and he knew them all.

"Sounded like a real kicker too," Racetrack said. "You was thrashin' 'round and screamin' in another language. Scared the hell outta all of us too." He glanced around. "Not that we can really blame ya, after..."

"After...?" He blinked, memories still fuzzy. Slowly, they began to come back. Bumlets... and the blood. For a moment, his heart nearly stopped, but then he remembered that Bumlets wasn't really dead, that it was all a plot to fool the clowns. And now he remembered again who he was and what he had dreamt. "Oh."

Racetrack looked around, at the sea of faces surrounding them, then looked back at Dutchy, who was nervously fiddling with his thin blanket. "Dutchy, let's get you some air, okay? Jus' you and me. The rest of you'se all, go back to bed."

Even though Jack was their leader, they all knew that Race was usually to be obeyed without question, so with nary a grumble, they dispersed and headed back to their own bunks. Mush, however, lingered a moment and rested a comforting hand on Dutchy's shoulder before following the others.

"C'mon," Race said, extending a hand to help Dutchy up. Normally, Dutchy would have laughed and teased Race about being a whole head shorter than he, and whether the right person was being helped, but tonight, being very shaky and worn out, he was grateful for Race's solid grip around his waist as they slowly walked down the steps and out the front door.

Race had been right; the instant Dutchy stepped into the cool night air, away from the musty air of the Lodging House, his head began to clear a bit. He took his glasses from Race's outstretched hands, and put them on gratefully, somewhat relieved to have the world come into focus. Silently, they both sat down on the front stoop. Race, with an ease born of long habit, took out a cigar and a match. As he struck the match against the cement step and a small flame came to life with the smell of sulfur, Dutchy involuntarily shuddered. All these years, he'd managed to suppress his adverse reaction to even the smallest flames, but now, in the shadow of that nightmare, with his family's screams still echoing in his mind, he couldn't control it.

Race, with his sharp eyes, caught the shudder. "You cold?"

"Nah, ain't that," Dutchy said shortly.

The shorter boy looked curious, but evidently got the message that Dutchy didn't care to talk about that particular subject. "Look, Dutchy, we'se all a little worried about you."

"Gee, thanks," Dutchy muttered.

"I know it ain't the best time to ask, but I was wonderin' if you managed to remember anythin' about the bastards who killed Bumlets. We ain't gonna let 'em get away with it, and we'se gonna give 'em one for you too."

"Don't do me no favors."

Looking at Dutchy's jutting chin and his still-distraught face, Race sighed. "You really cared 'bout him, didn't you?"

Dutchy looked up. "Huh? Race, what're you talkin' about?"

"Bumlets," Racetrack said quietly.

"Well, yeah," Dutchy said. "I mean, he was a newsie, same as the rest of us."

"I didn't mean like that, Dutchy." Race removed his cigar from his mouth and blew a perfect smoke ring, staring up at the sky contemplatively. "He cared 'bout you a lot too."

Dutchy glanced over at Race, his eyes widening, sure that Race couldn't be saying what he thought he was saying. "Listen, Race, thanks for the air, but—"

"You didn't know, didja? Dutchy, you'se got your heart in the right place, but you don't notice nothin', do ya?" Race coughed and cleared his throat. "He always watched you, you know, when you wasn't lookin'. He'd look at you like you was the most wonderful thing he'd ever seen."

Dutchy swallowed hard. It couldn't be. It just couldn't be.

"So, if he had to die, I guess that he'd be happy that you was the one that was with him."

"Race, you don't know what you'se sayin'," Dutchy responded hotly. "If he'd felt that way 'bout me, he'd have told me. You'se just imaginin' things, that's all."

"I asked him." Race shrugged. "He made me promise never to tell you, 'cause he thought you'd never feel the same way back, but now that he's...he's dead, I guess that it don't hurt nobody for you to know." Dutchy nodded, keeping his face stony and expressionless, though his stomach was doing flip-flops. After a glance at Dutchy, Race continued, "At the time, I agreed with him, but now, lookin' at ya, I wish I'd told him to tell you."

"What're you sayin', Race?" Dutchy asked. "And what's the point?"

"Point is that you feel 'bout him the same way he felt 'bout you." Seeing the look on Dutchy's face, Race sighed and said, "You really don't notice anythin', do ya, Dutchy? You'se so wrapped up in your own problems that you don't even notice your own feelings."

"Those ain't my feelings!" Dutchy sputtered. "I don't like guys!"

Race shrugged. "Suit yourself. But it's somethin' you maybe should consider."

Dutchy opened his mouth to blast Race with a scathing reply, but before he could so much as gesture angrily, he was cut off by a calm voice.

"Excuse me. Might I have a word with you two gentlemen?"

Both Race and Dutchy jumped, startled. Dutchy stared at the tall, imposing-looking man who had interrupted them. It was one of the men who had been chasing Bumlets and who had followed Dutchy back to the Lodging House. And so, Dutchy thought with a nervous tic in his eye, this dapper man in the immaculate suit, carrying a gold-plated cane, must be one of the murderous clowns.

"We was havin' a private conversation," Race said coolly, "and ain't the middle of the night a strange time to walk 'round Manhattan?"

"It won't take but a minute," the man said. "I was in the area earlier and I heard that one of your friends was killed in a knife fight today?"

Dutchy glared up into the man's eyes. "What's it to you? Yeah, a friend of mine was killed. Now, go away."

"Would you mind describing the boy to me?"

"Dark hair, dark eyes, dark skin," Race said shortly. "Why, you know who killed him or somethin'?"

"No, but it's a subject that I happen to have a great deal of fascination with. You see, I believe this friend of yours, if he was the same boy, well, I had some news for him."

"News?" Racetrack said darkly. "Well, if it's the same guy, it's a bit late, ain't it?"

"I suppose so," the man replied, shaking his head in a regretful manner.

"What news?" Dutchy asked. "What could you possibly have had to say to him, huh?"

"It had to do with his family. However, if the boy in question is...deceased, I suppose I should be moving along." The man tipped his hat. "Good evening to you boys."

"Wait!" Dutchy said urgently, just as the man was turning away. "Did you say, um, his...family?" As he looked up at the man's cool blue eyes, Bumlets' words came back to him: "I don't want to go back to the circus, but I'd like to let 'em know that I'se alive... and I'd like to know that they worried about me." He knew that he shouldn't show any interest in the man's words, but if he could take some sort of news to Bumlets, anything that would cheer him up, it might make Dutchy feel better too. His own family was gone, long gone, but maybe he could give Bumlets back his family. "He...he told me 'bout his family, so maybe you could tell me? Even if he ain't around anymore, yeah?"

"I...see," the slender man said. "Well, your friend used to be a circus performer, and we owed him a favor, so we asked around other circuses and we found his family."

"You found his family?" Dutchy repeated, a vein of excitement flowing through him. "Where?"

"It doesn't really matter," the clown said. "It is such a pity though... We unjustly accused the boy of something, and we did this as a way of making it up to him. Such a pity."

Dutchy swore to himself. How could he make the clown tell him where Bumlets' family was without telling him that Bumlets wasn't dead? "I...He...If you told me where his family is, I could go and tell 'em what happened. He'd want me to tell 'em." Inwardly, he congratulated himself. What a perfect line! There was no way that anyone could deny him with a plea like that. It was foolproof.

"It's a nice thought, boy," the man said, "but I'll save you the trouble. I'll let his family know myself." He again tipped his hat and turned to leave.

"Tell me!" Dutchy said, uncomfortably aware of the strange look Racetrack was giving him. "Please tell me!"

The man looked back over his shoulder. "They're traveling with the Carson and Barnes Circus, which will be coming to town in approximately one month."

One month! It was all Dutchy could do to keep the sad expression on his face. He's gonna be so happy to hear it! Finally, I'se doin' somethin' right. "Thanks, mister," he said quietly, the corner of his mouth twitching despite his efforts. "When it comes to town, I'se gonna go see 'em and tell 'em about..." He hung his head.

"Of course, boy," the man said. "Best of luck to you." With a final nod, he cleared his throat and walked away, twirling his cane nonchalantly.

Dutchy could barely contain himself. Not only was Bumlets not going to die, but he was going to find his family! He could almost see the smile on Bumlets' face, his white teeth flashing, his dark eyes dancing.

"Dutchy?" Racetrack asked cautiously.

Dutchy's head snapped up so quickly that his glasses fell off his nose and landed in his lap. He had completely forgotten that he wasn't alone. Sheepishly picking up his glasses, he coughed and said, "Yeah, Race?"

"What was that all 'bout? What's goin' on?"

"I..." Dutchy looked down again, wanting to not lie anymore. "I can't tell ya, Race. Not yet."

"You'se hidin' somethin'. Don't think I don't see it. Maybe the other guys don't, but I do. You in trouble, or somethin'?"

"I said already. I can't tell ya yet," Dutchy replied irritably, looking around. The clown was definitely gone; he'd turned a corner, and was no longer visible. "Look...I gotta go, all right? I'll be back later."

He jumped to his feet. There was no time to lose. He couldn't wait to tell Bumlets about his family.

"Dutchy!" Race exclaimed.

"No time, no time," Dutchy said hurriedly, itching to be gone. "We'll talk later, okay?"

"I don't think you'se in a condition to go wanderin' the streets," Racetrack said firmly. "Ten minutes ago, you was screamin' in another language and didn't recognize us, and now you want to go for a midnight run? Ain't a good idea, I'm tellin' ya."

Dutchy looked down at Race, still sitting on the stoop with the cigar. "I..." He sighed. "Look, Race, I know I'm not dressed, I know that I ain't doin' too well right now, but this is important. This could fix things, and I know you don't understand, but that's how it is."

"I'se coming with you." Before Dutchy could open his mouth to protest, Race continued, "You ain't gonna stop me, Dutchy, and if you try, I'se just gonna follow you, so you might as well accept it and let me come."

Dutchy bit his lip. "I wish I could let you come. I really do. But..." he raked his hair off of his forehead, struggling to put his fragmented thoughts into words. "A whole lot is ridin' on what happens, Race. This is real important, and I can't take the chance of it gettin' messed up. I...know that I can't stop you, but if..." He trailed off, not wanting to say it.

"If what?" Race asked. He crossed his arms.

"If you care 'bout...'bout me and 'bout all of us, and 'specially 'bout Bumlets, you won't."

"Bumlets?" Race said sharply. "Listen, Bumlets is dead. I cared 'bout him, but I don't see how anythin' now could make much of a difference to him. You'se barefoot and in your underwear, and you want to go runnin' around? Either you don't go, or I go with you. I care 'bout you, and that's why I ain't about to let you do somethin' stupid."

Dutchy hung his head, his blond hair flopping into his eyes. Silently, he cursed Racetrack for being such a good friend. He knew that, were the positions reversed, he wouldn't let anyone run off half-naked in the middle of the night, but on the other hand... He had information about Bumlets' family, and he had to make this all up to him somehow. Shifting his weight back and forth, and looking around helplessly, Dutchy finally had to come to the decision that the news about Bumlets' family would have to wait. At least, it would have to wait until Racetrack fell back to sleep and he could sneak out.

"Fine," he sighed. "Let's go back inside. I'se real tired."

Racetrack nodded, but it was clear from the look in his eyes that Dutchy's sudden capitulation had made him suspicious. "Right. You first."

Dutchy laughed, though it sounded strained, even to his ears. "I ain't gonna run the second you turn your back, Race." He shrugged and walked back inside, feeling Race's dark eyes burning a hole in his back all the way up the stairs.