Days passed and still things were cloudy. The boys of Brooklyn got up, sold their papers, and went to bed. On this particular morning, Spot and Bolt made their way to the distribution office without much conversation to find an old friend had returned home.

"Ace is back," Thompson informed them as they arrived.

"Are ya kiddin' me?" Bolt asked in shock. "He's sure got some balls then."

Spot clenched his fists at his sides. Ace wasn't the person he wanted to be seeing in his Brooklyn. On that final day of fighting, Ace fought hand-to-hand against a Queens boy who had struck Dodge, a close friend, in the head. As Ace was trying to fight him off in Dodge's defense, he stared fear in the face and ran. The Queens newsie then finished off Dodge for good, even though he wouldn't have lasted for much longer. Ace had only been a part of Brooklyn for a very short while before the war, but none of Spot's newsies did that. As far as he was concerned, Ace might as well be dead.

"Why the hell is he at my office?" Spot inquired angrily. "He ain't even a newsie no more, not to me at least."

Bolt and Thompson looked at each other as Spot eyed the scrawny, crooked-smiling fifteen-year-old being greeted by old buddies with slaps on the back and spit shakes, none of which Spot felt he deserved.

"Ya want me to get ya papes?" asked Bolt. "Don't wanna have to bury another boy since I ain't trustin' your anger management, Spot."

Spot thought for a second and leered famously to Thompson and Bolt. "Don't worry about it. He ain't decent enough to be buried."

Conlon made his way easily through the groups of boys to the line. Ace stood, still being greeted, towards the front of the line, and Spot planted his feet six feet away from him in an open space of cement. With his shoulders back and hands placed atop one another over the golden tip of his cane, he waited for Ace to come to him. Gradually the boys became more hushed around him as they watched their leader in fascination.

Ace turned and looked at Spot, his grin vanishing at the intimidating expression upon Brooklyn's face. "Hey Conlon." He saluted in a phony voice that masked fear. He wobbled down the steps and stood in front of Spot, spitting in his palm and holding it in front of him.

Air could have dropped while Spot glared Ace right in the eye, daring him to try being friendly. Dozens of pairs of eyes stuck to the two boys until Spot broke the silence:

"Have a nice vacation, Ace?"

Ace took his hand back and sighed. "How'd I know I'd get this shit comin' home?" he asked rather coolly.

"Why did ya come back?"

"Had to eventually." His thin lips curled into a sneering grin and showed his crooked teeth. "And outta respect for Dodge."

The mention of his friend's name uttered from that mouth struck a nerve and Spot clenched, taking a step forward and forcefully shoving Ace's shoulder. "Don't ever say his name, ya hear? I don't wanna hear you mentionin' it ever!" His voice rose with resentment.

The distribution office was silent and even the clerks stopped moving along. Spot's hateful gaze sent shudders through onlookers. Ace stared straight back, a bold move on his part.

"Ain't s'posed to talk about that day, are we? The day we all saw the king himself fall," Ace scathed.

Heated anger built up within Spot as it was felt by everyone around them. Thompson scurried through some boys and out toward Ace.

"Losin' your touch, huh, Conlon?" Ace boldly continued.

Thompson grabbed Ace's arm powerfully and made an attempt to rid him of Spot's rage; but being the stubborn idiot he was, Ace shoved off Thompson.

"My point exactly!" Gotta have this guy push me away, eh, Spot? Surprised it ain't Bolt, though. He still around?"

"Ace, just back off," Thompson warned in a low voice.

"No, I wanna hear it from Spot himself: He failed Brooklyn."

Well that certainly did it for Mr. Conlon. His cane dropped to the ground as he grabbed hold of Ace's collar and shoved him to the ground. The boys swarmed around them as their leader sat over Ace and punched him repeatedly in the face and stomach. Ace didn't stand a chance: Every time he tried to knock him out, Spot blocked his shot.

It was not until the sound of Ace's loud holler of pain when Spot had successfully broken his nose, did Bolt tear Spot off the smaller newsie.

"You get the hell outta here!" Conlon shouted. He got up to his feet and spit at the ground. He stomped out of the distribution place and shoved his way through the herds of people. How dare Ace say things like that. He got what he deserved too.

Refusing to go back to purchase his papers, he plopped down onto the end of an available bench. Childishly he crossed his arms firmly over his chest and he clenched his jaw. A wind picked up and made the tree beside him rustle at the side of his head. Irritably, he swatted at the branch and ripped its twigs right off.

With a frustrated grunt, he turned and laid his back against the thin wooden bench. The plain gray sky stared back at him and the sun was barely creeping out in the distance. He placed his arm over his eyes and soon they blinked to a close. The noises around him drowned out and he immediately grew tired. Within a few short minutes, he drifted off to sleep.

Nearly an hour had passed as he started out of his nap. Slowly his mind awakened again and his eyelids rolled open. His big, round eyes looked above him, and to his surprise found that a girl had taken a seat at the other end of the bench. The sun now shined in the sky and cast a sort of glow around her light brown, shoulder-length hair. Spot couldn't see her face, though, as she read an open newspaper in front of her. A corner of it folded over and Spot now saw her eyes dart towards him. They locked gazes for a moment. She paused and brought down her wall of paper.

"Do I know you?" she asked him, searching her memory.

"Maybe." He remained looking up at her and didn't move.

"You look strangely familiar." She squinted down at him and cocked her head to the side.

Ah, shit, he thought. Another one that thought their night together actually meant something to him. He sat up and faced her. "Look, I'm real sorry for leavin' in the morning so suddenly."

The girl gave him a weird look. "What?"

"Huh?" Spot rubbed his eyes and held his forehead in his hand.

"No, you're that newsie. Spot, right? Spot Conlon?"

He looked up at her, thankful that she wasn't some one-night stand haunting him from the past. He nodded.

"I knew I had heard of you!" She smiled sweetly and quickly folded her paper. Situating herself to face him, she held out her hand. "Gabrielle Lawrence."

Spot stared at her thin fingers as if they were foreign objects. Usually shaking a girl's hands was not the first thing he did. "Hi."

"Well, you can call me Gabby if you want." Her voice was perky and sweet and polite; things Spot weren't used to. "How are you? How's everything going?"

Spot was baffled by Gabby's ability to break down the stranger barrier so easily. "It's all right…" he trailed.

Gabby raised the thin brown eyebrows slightly that lay over her light green eyes. "Yeah?"

"Problems with some 'a the guys. Y'know?" No; Spot didn't expect her to know what he was talking about. But he got a cozy, comfortable vibe around her.

"Ohh," Gabby replied slowly with a nod of her head as if she understood completely. "Yeah, I heard that stuff can get a little dramatic. You want to talk about it?"

Spot looked at her peculiarly, but she just smiled and added, "I'm a good listener."

The amiability etched in Gabby's face and warmness in her voice made Spot do something he hadn't done in a long time: he smiled. Not a flashy beam, but a subtle grin turned up the corners of his lips.

"Sure," he mumbled back.

Gabby scooted closer, crossed one leg over the other, and placed an elbow on the back of the bench. "Spill."