"So, who wants Brooklyn? Ya know, Spot Conlon's territory?" Jack Kelly asked, exactly two years later. That day the price had gone up on the newspapers. Ten cents a hundred! The Manhattan newsies were going on strike, and they had to get word out to newsies all around New York, so they could join, and then the newsies would be unstoppable, right? It happened to be Flight and Kid Blink's fifteenth birthday that sweltering July afternoon.

The boys around Flight stuffed dirty hands into linty pockets, whistling broken tunes. They didn't want Brooklyn. Flight cautiously raised a hand.

"I'll go," he volunteered, "if someone goes with me."

"Great. Me, you, and Boots'll go. An' Davey can keep us company," Jack agreed.

Two hours later the quartet strolled down the docks of Brooklyn, large splashes echoing all around them as muscled boys threw themselves at the cool green water.

"Going' somewhere, Kelly?" a Brooklynite newsie asked, pulling himself over the edge of the dock to stand in front of Jack. Jack brushed past him without a word. The dripping Brooklynite huffed before catapulting himself back into the river.

At the edge of the dock, perched upon a teetering pile of crates (or a look-out, you could call it), sat a small, handsome boy of about sixteen. His hat was pulled low over his eyes to ward off the sun. His right thumb was curled around a red suspender, the other fingering a gold tipped cane in his belt loop. Flight guessed this to be Spot Conlon, and Flight was correct.

Spot jumped from his look-out base, landing just in front of Jack, who extended his hand, loaded with a wad of spit. Spot did the same, exchanging a few words and shooters with Boots before listening to what David had to say about the strike. Flight was glad that he had been given no chance or command to speak. Flight always tried to say as little as possible. Flight hated to talk. Flight silently prayed that Spot wouldn't turn and notice him. Then he'd have to say something. Flight had just decided that volunteering to be an ambassador was a stupid idea when Spot glanced in this direction.

"Hey, Jacky-boy, who's this?" he questioned, staring into Flight's eyes. Flight turned his head away sharply, focusing on a boat far out on the river. Flight hated to be stared at, too.

"Oh, this here it Flight Caden, Blink's twin. I'd forgotten you two hadn't met," Jack put in, introducing the two. Spot nodded, his eyes trained to Flight's face. He finally held out a spit laden hand to the small blonde Flight in front of him, who returned the gesture. Spot continued to peer intently at Flight's face.

"They should've called you Mute," Spot finally said. "Do you talk at all?"

"Yeah," Flight answered gruffly. He didn't say anything more. Spot nodded his approval.

"So, anyway, how do I know you punks won't run the first time some goon comes at ya with a club? How do I know ya got what it takes to win?" Spot asked, finally turning back to Jack, whose cowboy hat was placed firmly on his head.

"'Cause I'm tellin' ya, Spot," Jack replied.

"That ain't good enough, Jacky-boy. Ya gotta show me," Spot said in farewell.

As the four Manhattaners turned to their own territory, their footsteps falling with hollow thunks on the docks, Flight shivered as he brought up the rear. A pair of cold, silver-blue eyes were fixed on Flight's protruding back.

"What do ya mean, ya went to Brooklyn?" Blink asked Flight, pushing his twin into the cold brick of the Manhattan lodging house wall.

"I mean I went to Brooklyn," the smaller twin replied calmly.

"But, but . . ." the one eyed twin spluttered. "You saw Conlon? Conlon saw you?" Flight nodded, then shrugged (which was difficult, considering his brother had the palm of each hand pressed into Flight's shoulders).

"So?"

"Don't you get it, Jo? Conlon's got a reputation. I mean . . . Geeze, he could spot you from a mile off! You sure he doesn't suspect you?"

"Yeah." Flight nodded again, though a bit uncertainly this time. "Why should he?" Blink sighed.

"Just don't do it again, okay?" Blink pleaded to his twin.

Flight swore to his brother, "I'll never go to Brooklyn by myself or make a point of seeing Spot Conlon, promise." Blink was satisfied, and he let his only remaining sibling out of his grasp. Flight ran down the alley to join his best friend, Racetrack, in a game of crapshooter. Blink dropped his blonde head into his hands.

"I don't know, but that might be the stupidest thing Jo's ever done," he whispered to himself before wandering off to find Mush.

As Flight lay in bed that night, trying unsuccessfully to fall to sleep, pictures of Spot's eyes boring into him flashed through Flight's head. Flight couldn't place his finger on what exactly about it made him uneasy. Flight finally gave up, rolling over to face Kid Blink's sleeping form in the bunk across from his own.

There was no sound in the room besides the deep breathing of sleeping newsboys and Snipeshooter's rumbling snores. It was amazing how someone so small could make such a tremendous racket.

Flight had nearly fallen into slumber when Spot's cool eyes shot before his closed lids once more. Flight sat up with an audible gasp, the springs of his mattress creaking all too loudly for one in the morning.

Flight shook his head. Spot didn't know. He couldn't know. But if he did, and he told . . . Flight didn't want to imagine what awful things would happen to him. Flight shook his head again.

"Don't think about that," Flight commanded himself silently. "It's your own bloody fault. You knew you shouldn't have gone . . . it's your own bloody fault."

To my reviewers, thank you very much. It means a lot. Hey B -- if I mention Catwalk, like just say she and Mush are dating, would you still give me five bucks?