When Flight awoke, he was stuffed inside a holding room at the refuge with about fifty other boys. Blink (whose face was bruising beautifully) was using Flight's stomach as a pillow. Flight's own head was resting on Bumlets's crossed ankles.

The sunlight streaming through the bars covering the window hurt Flight's eyes, causing a tremendous headache. If Flight had pained himself to take a look around the room, Flight might have noticed that Spot Conlon, who was sitting in a corner with his knees pulled up to his chest, was watching him.

A little while later, a heavy man with a large amount of stubble on his chin unlocked the holding room's door and ushered the newsies out of the room and into a carriage (it couldn't really be called a carriage because is was uncomfortable, wooden, and had bars on the windows) pulled by two black horses.

"Where are we goin', Flight?" the littlest newsies, Tumbler, asked, climbing onto Flight's lap.

"Courtroom," he replied.

"Oh."

"An' so then I says to the bum 'I'd like to see you try,' an' then he . . . Flight? Are you listening?" Flight wasn't listening to Racetrack ramble on about the scrapes he'd gotten into at Sheepshead Bay, and told him so. Race shrugged it off and continued to talk his mouth off, but this time it was directed at Specs.

Mush had dozed off to the right of Flight, and he leaned his head on Flight's shoulder. It wasn't the most comfortable position. Tumbler was attempting to twist Blink's hair into knots (Blink was sitting cross legged on the floor with his eye closed and his head leaning on Flight's knee), and Flight showed the boy how to braid it, much to Tumbler's delight.

"An' then, the horse won the race! So the guy tells me that he doesn't owe me a damn thing . . ."

"Flight! What are you doing to my head?"

"Braidin' it, Blink!" The chatter was becoming somewhat deafening, adding to Flight's headache. Bits and pieces of conversation were floating through the air and into Flight's ears.

"You so do to owe me!"

"She was so damn hot, I tell you!"

"I think I'm gonna puke!"

"Oh, no, Snitch! You are not going to puke in my lap!"

"An' the horse was in seventh place, an' then he almost fell and killed himself, and then he won! That's when Percy lost his five bucks to me!"

"Did you see Pulitzer in his carriage the other day? It was huge! And the horses, real good horses, yeah . . ."

"My little boids are all over the city. Watching every move you make. You blow your nose an' I'd know about it."

"Hey! We're here!" Skittery finally called.

"Oh good," Flight sighed, standing up and accidentally dumping Tumbler onto the floor. "Sorry," he said before hoisting the little guy onto his back.

The courtroom seemed to be made up of nothing but overly polished wood. The floors, the ceiling, the walls, the desks, railings to keep the newsie party from leaving the room (like they actually had anywhere to go), and Judge E.A. Monahan's podium was shiny. Flight could see his reflection (with Tumbler's face peering over his shoulder) in the wood.

"Arise, arise, the court is now in session, Judge E.A. Monahan presiding," the bailiff called.

"Like we was sittin' anyway?" Flight grumbled to himself. Tumbler giggled.

"Are any of you represented by council?" Monahan asked the newsboy force.

"Hey, Flight, what's a council?" Racetrack asked, turning and leaning over Blink's shoulder to see his friend's face. Flight shrugged.

"Dunno."

"You know everything, you should know this, too," Racetrack whispered back.

"It's impossible to know everything, Race. Otherwise I might actually know what I'm here for."

"Alright, no one. That should move things along considerably," Judge Monahan declared.

"Hey, your honor, I object," Spot spoke up.

"On what grounds?" Spot seemed confused, but after only a moment's pause replied:

"On the grounds of Brooklyn, your honor." The newsies burst into laughter, except for Tumbler, who didn't get it. Spot grinned.

"I fine each of you five dollars, or two weeks confinement in the House of Refuge," Judge Monahan said, banging his gavel. There was another explosion of whispers.

"Five bucks? This sucks," Spot muttered.

"Tell me about it," Flight answered.

"Hey Flight," Tumbler said, leaning down over Flight's shoulder, "what does sucks mean?"

"Stinks real bad," Flight answered.

"Oh." Tumbler thought for a second and then said, "Yeah, this does suck."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Five bucks? We ain't got five bucks, we don't even got five cents," Race shouted out. "Hey, your honor, how 'bout I roll ya for it, double or nothing?" More laughs.

"Move it along."

"I'll pay the fines," Mr. Denton (a newspaper reporter covering the newsies strike) said, "all of them." The newsies were ushered out of the courtroom as Jack was being led in. He was in extra trouble not only because he was the leader but he had escaped from the refuge several years ago.

"We need to meet at the restaurant," Mr. Denton said.

"To Tibby's!" Tumbler declared once they were outside, pointing in Tibby's general direction from his position on Flight's back. Flight smiled.

"Yep, that's right, kid."

"Come on," Blink muttered, grabbing hold of Flight's arm. "Spot's staring at you again. I don't like that."

"Mr. Conlon's nice," Tumbler said, crossing his arms. Flight let him down.

"Yeah, I know. Go find Racetrack, kid. Maybe if you're nice he'll tell you about Afleet Alex, the horse." Tumbler scampered off. Flight turned to Blink. "I can handle myself."

"I know. I just don't like it. If he knows . . ."

"How many times before have we had this conversation?"

"Too many."

"Yeah."

At the restaurant, Blink made it a point to sit next to Flight. He lit a cigarette.

"You know that's disgusting, right?" Flight hated smoking, especially when his brother did it.

"I need a smoke, Flight," he whined.

"Whatever." Mr. Denton arrived just then.

"I – I've come to say goodbye," he said sadly, hanging his head. Flight tuned out after that. Shit.

"Our leader's in the slammer, and there went our funding and publicity," Skittery grumbled after Mr. Denton had left.

"We're gonna need money," Dutchy said softly.

"We could sell one day a week," Bumlets suggested. Racetrack turned to glare at him. "Or not. Sorry."

"There are always factories," Flight said quietly. "Or . . . well . . . I could . . . you know, Blink."

"No Flight. No way. You wouldn't," Blink said, jumping up.

"If it would keep me alive. I could use the money to help all of us."

"You can't. You promised Ma."

"Well I haven't done anything yet, have I?" Blink glared at Flight.

"You promised," he said through his teeth.

"I know I did," Flight said. He picked up his hat and walked out the door.

"Shit," Blink muttered, sitting back down.

"You promised your ma not to work in factories?" Mush said incredulously.

"No, not to sell himself."

"Can't only girls do that?" Blink looked up at Mush sharply, but didn't answer. He stood and followed in the direction Flight had gone.

"Well . . . that was . . . um . . . what was that?" Bumlets asked, glancing at Mush.

"Dunno."

Two days later the strike was at a peak. A large amount of New York City arrived at Newsies Square for (hopefully) the final rally.

Flight was currently being hugged by Racetrack.

"You so know we beat 'em, Flight!" he shouted to be heard over the crowd.

"Hopefully."

"We just gotta wait till Jack comes out of that building all smiling," Race said, gesturing towards Pulitzer's building. "Ah," he said smiling, "right on cue."

Sure enough, Jack Kelly closely followed by David Jacobs, exited Pulitzer's building. Jack bent down to David's little brother, Les, and whispered in his ear. Les smiled and nodded, clambering on to Jack's shoulders. Jack stood up straight, looking over David's head to the crowd. With Les on his shoulders he was significantly taller than anyone else there.

"We beat 'em!" Jack screamed at the crowd, raising his arms triumphantly. He was going to say something else, but the deafening roar of the crowd drowned him out, so he just smiled and set Les back on his feet.

"Jack, Jack, it's the bulls. It's the bulls, let me down," Les said when he was only halfway down Jack's back. Jack turned to run. Flight, Racetrack, Blink and several others followed him to block him from the bull's sight.

"Hey, hey, it's okay," Mr. Denton said, showing up in front of the small group.

"Come on, come on, let's go," Race said, attempting to jerk Jack around Denton.

"You don't have to run anymore. Not from the likes of them," Denton continued. Jack threw Race a dirty look as Denton pushed him back the way he had come.

To make a long story short, the bulls were releasing all the boys from the House of Refuge, includingfellow newsboy Crutchy. Warden Snyder, who had been trying so hard to land Jack in jail again, was arrested for stealing money that was meant to fund the refuge, not him personally.

Jack was offered the chance to go to the train yards and then go off to Santa Fe in Governor Teddy Roosevelt's carriage, at first accepting, and then turning around to come back to the newsies.

Jack stepped back out of the carriage.

"Besides, I've got family here," he said quietly, looking over the sea of newsies. This was the family.

Flight looked up family in the dictionary later that evening in the old red book that was Koppman's prized posetion and this is what it said: Family: (n): A group of people who care for and love one another.

As Flight looked around the packed Lodging House (all the Brooklyn newsies were still there), he thought that the newsies fit that description perfectly. This was most definitely a group of people who cared for and loved one another. This was where Flight belonged. Flight only had six months left in this particular family, but he didn't know that then.

Yay! I updated! Amazing. Next chapter is the revealing. Review, or else I might not continue . . . :(

So review, I say! Review!