Bolt. Thompson. Glover. Chip. Blackjack. Johnny. Catch. Switch. Noah. Bertram. Patches. Ian. The names rolled off Spot's tongue easily as he paced about in front of the lodging house that evening. They were Brooklyn's finest, his top choices so far to take to the meeting. He had several worthy boys to choose from, but the ones he had in mind sounded perfect to him.

He stood on the small wooden porch with his arms above his head at the porch roof. Casually he tried his best to relax while observing those who strolled the streets and returned home for the night. The setting sun was barely visible behind the dying rain clouds on his left, evidence of a rainy day along with muddy puddles along the street. A deep sigh exhaled from his lungs just as a familiar face came into view.

"There's definitely somethin' on yer mind, Conlon," Bolt greeted as he approached the porch. "Ya got that thoughtful-lookin' face goin' on. Freaks me out."

Spot stretched out his arms above his head. He lazily leaned his shoulder against the pole and placed one thumb in his pocket.

"Ya missed dinner," Bolt told him as he shuffled up the steps to talk to Spot. He stuck his hand in one pocket and jingled the many coins. "And a few rounds a' poker," he added with a smug smile.

Spot shook his head slightly and looked down at his feet. Suddenly he felt a tiny twinge of heat come to his cheeks as he answered Bolt, "I was with Gabby."

Bolt's mouth took the shape of an annoyed "Oh" as he sat on the porch railing. He turned his head and took off his hat. "All day?" he asked after several seconds.

"All day."

Bolt raised his head to nod, paused, and instead brought it to the side. "So, uh, things are gettin' pretty serious with this chick."

Rather than look at Bolt, Spot's gazed fixed on an object far away from them, deep in pleasant memory and thought. "I love 'er." He shifted back to Bolt to see his reaction, not that it really mattered.

Bolt stared directly ahead of him for moments. The conversation between them had halted, a now common event once Gabby had been brought up as a topic. Bolt cracked his fingers, the noise louder than usual. Spot rolled his eyes and adjusted his stance. As he was about to speak his mind to Bolt graphically and obscenely, a boy of adolescent years was making his way to the porch. Spot squinted his eyes.

"I don't believe it," Spot said with anticipation. "Noodle's back again."

Bolt turned back around and smiled excitedly. They hurriedly stepped off the porch and raced toward Noodle. The younger boy's face was swollen around the eyes, and he sported proudly a puffy, fat lip. His clothes were dirty and torn, with evidence of a rough experience over in Queens. The expression of his round, boyish face was of both relief and excitement.

"Ho-ly shit, Noodle," Bolt said as they met one another yards away from the lodging house, "what the hell happened?"

A swollen smirk spread across Noodle's face as he stared at them. "Got the messenger job, obviously. Lemme tell ya, it wasn't easy neitha."

"No kiddin', look at yer face! They roughed ya up good. How'd ya get outta there?"

"Tyce was all cocky and shit, walkin' around like he owned New Yawk, braggin' they gonna take out Brooklyn fer good. So this mornin' after sellin' he held a boxin' match to see who wanted the glory 'a givin' you'se guys the 'death message,' he called it." Noodle lifted his stomach, showing a number of bruises that varied in size and color. "Stayed alive fer nine rounds and won!"

Spot smirked and patted Noodle's shoulder proudly, as if a father would to a son.

Bolt laughed obnoxiously as they started their way onto the porch. They pulled three wooden chairs to a tight circle as Noodle informed them of the plans.

"First, they want you'se guys there at seven 'a'clock on Sunday. They wanna 'discuss territorial issues and problems.' Obviously, we know bettah than that, but that's what they told me, so I got the hell outta there."

Bolt and Spot nodded seriously and intensely, taking in the information and listening like military generals. Noodle continued:

"I ovaheard them tellin' some 'a their guys they gonna be at the factory at six to get ready. They'se so serious about this, Spot. They was talkin' about weapons, and Tyce wanted them each to get pistols and wrenches and knives and shit. We can't rely on just fightin' skills and slingshots."

Spot placed his arms on his elbows and massaged his forehead for quite some time. He suddenly felt the gravity of the situation atop his shoulders, and old emotions came flooding back of the time before the real war with Queens. It felt as though a compression on his chest was preventing enough oxygen to flow through his lungs. He took to his feet at once and pushed those feelings aside. His hand rubbed sternly from his forehead down to his chin.

"A'right," sighed Spot, "so this is it. Tyce is plannin' to fight dirtier than any otha newsie we know. It ain't like he just wants our sellin' spots. This is about power. He wants control ovah his territory and ours, and I'm thinkin' Jumper's tryin' to do the same thing with Manhattan. This ain't outta desire to sell fuckin' papers; it's about control and he's driven by hate fer us. He wants Brooklyn gone, and to use Queens as his…control center, fer lack of a bettah word."

Spot paused a moment and sighed before moving on, and Bolt and Noodle watched him battle with his pride. He hand pinched the sides of his forehead tightly as he covered his furrowed and closed eyes.

"Bolt," Spot started and slowly brought his hand away, "if anythin' happens to me this Sunday at the factory, I want you'se takin' ovah."

"Conlon, shut—"

"No." He put his hand up to stop him. "You'se the only one I want leadin' Brooklyn, ya hear? I won't have it any otha way," he told him firmly.

Without saying a word but with merely staring him down hard, Bolt nodded. "A'right, Spot."

"Noodle, ya heard me just now, in case anyone asks or tries to argue with it. Got that?"

Noodle nodded dutifully.

It was silent for several moments as none of the boys exchanged conversation or peeped a word. They sat in their seats for seconds on end in heavy contemplation, blinking only to bring them back to reality and making small movements to remind them they were alive. After many quiet minutes, Spot spoke up to continue with the situation.

"Noodle, how many's Queens takin' Sunday? Get a number?" he questioned.

The young boy looked above his head in thought to search his memory. "He's takin' fifteen, I think. Yeah, yeah. Fifteen."

"Fifteen?" Spot asked, baffled. "That's real low in numbers. Ya sure it's fifteen?"

"Positive. He still thinks you think it's just a meetin' for the leaders. He's gonna stand there with one 'a his guys, while the otha thirteen are hidin' all ovah the place to get us."

"Right, right." Spot turned to Bolt. "How many d'ya think we should take with us?"

Bolt sat back in his chair and placed his hand on his chin in thought. His lips moved inaudibly while he mentally went through the ranks. "I'm gonna say around twenty four, twenty five. That sound reasonable?"

"Twenty five sounds good."

After a few seconds, a weird noise came from inside as if something had fallen down the steps. The three boys looked at each other and then to the doorway. Moments later, the door opened quickly and Ace stood their brushing off his shirt, proving the object that had fallen down the steps was he. He looked to the boys with a goofy smile.

"Hey fellas, how's it goin'."

"Bettah watch those steps, Ace," Bolt told him sarcastically. "A guy can really hurt hisself goin' down those things."

"Yeah, yeah," Ace replied hurtfully while dusting off his pants. "Just goin' fer a little walk is all. That okay?"

"Oh, by all means, Ace, leave."

Ace frowned angrily at him and trotted through the front porch. He hopped down into the street and began to stroll along the streets. Unbeknownst to the boys on the porch, though, he headed toward Gabby's apartment.

Spot sighed and leaned his back against his chair. "Bolt, take note…there's no way we'se takin' him on Sunday. I got an idea of who we'll take and he don't make the cut at all. I got thirteen boys, includin' me. Go through and think'a twelvemore guys good enough to take, and we'll have our twenty five."

"You got it, Conlon."