"Manhattan, I need some help."

I looked up in surprise. Spot Conlon was standing in front of me, a stack of papes under his arm and an uncharacteristically serious look on his face.

"What's dis? Da high and mighty Spot Conlon is askin' me, da lowly leaddah of Manhattan, foah help? Good Loid, hell musta frozen ovah."

"Manhattan, focus!" Spot growled.

"Relax, I'se just givin' youse a hard time. What's da mattah?"

"We'se been havin' some trubbal wid Queens lately. It ain't been nuttin' major, bu' I'se gettin' kinda worried."

"'Worried'? Is dat woid even in youse vocabulary?"

"Well, if it wasn't, I wouldn'ta just said it, would I've?" he replied angrily. "Anyways, of dey do get nasty, will youse help us?"

I considered his request. Queens was one tough borough. I really didn't want to risk the lives of any newsies, but if Queens unleashed their full force, what chance would Brooklyn have? Sure, they had some of the best shooters in the city, but Queens liked to play dirty – with switchblades. I wouldn't even let Spot Conlon (my worst enemy) face them alone. I stood up.

"Alright, Spot, we'll help ya. If Queens crosses da line, they'll have Manhattan ta ansah to."

"God help us all," Spot muttered under his breath. But he held out his hand anyway and we spit-shook.

"Well, I'm off," Spot stretched. "Places to go, people to see, trouble to be caused…"

"Have ya sold all me hundred papes yet?" I asked slyly.

He frowned. "Shaddup, Manhattan."

"Well, have ya?"

"Ya didn't specify when dey all had ta be sold by."

"Spooooot!" I whined.

"Manhattan, dat's a lot 'a papes ta sell in one day. I gots mine ta sell too."

'Go ta Central Park," I said indifferently.

"Fine, den, I will!" He stomped off.

I watched him go, a small, devious smile on my face. Then I ran to catch up.

"Whaddya want?" he growled as I fell into step beside him.

"Oh, nuttin'," I said airily. "Jus' didn' have nuttin ta do, so I thought I'd follow youse."

"Manhattan, go follow someone else!" he groaned, shifting the weight of papes on his him and glaring at me.

"Why would I'se bothah someone else when I can bothah youse?" I asked sweetly, enjoying the furious look on his face.

"Because youse feelin' uncharacteristically nice foah a change and will let me sell me papes in peace."

"Now how much o' dat statement do youse really and truly believe?"

"Go away."

"No, sorry, youse stuck wid me foah now."

Spot looked up at the sky. "Why me?" he wailed.

"So, have ya been ta Central Park recently? It really is lovely dis time o' year…"

"…and den Race got majorly mad and put soap in Mush's taters, and Mush was boipin' bubbles foah a week aftawoid. It was highly distoibin'."

Spot slammed his stack of papes down on a bench.

"Are you done?" he asked grumpily.

"Of course not, I haven't even gotten ta da good part yet. Did I tell ya 'bout da time Pie Eatah threw up at Jack's goin' away party? Dat was gross."

"I know," said Spot. "I was dere."

"You were?"

"Yeah."

"No, you weren't."

"Uh, yeah, I was."

"Nuh-uh. I woulda remembered youse bein' dere, cuz we woulda fought, and I cain't remember any fights."

"Well, I was. "Cuz I caught youse and Jack smootching behind da bar, remember dat?"

My breath caught in my throat. I felt a slow hot blush rise to my face. How dare he remind me of that?

"Struck a noive, did I?" he asked coyly. I didn't answer.

"Well, at least youse shut up," he muttered. He grabbed a couple of papes from the stack.

"I'se gonna go sell dese. You jus' sit heah an' take it easy. Don't do nuttin' rash."

I was dimly aware of what he was saying. I couldn't focus properly. That kiss with Jack had been my last one – he went off to Santa Fe the next day. And he took Sarah with him.

Sarah.

She wasn't even a bloody newsie. She couldn't punch to save her life. She wore dresses.

Bloody dresses.

Maybe that's why Jack took her. He couldn't stand the competition.

A sob rose in my throat, but I refused to let it escape. I had spent too long crying over him.

But I had loved him with all of my heart. I had thought he loved me too. I was supposed to be the one in Santa Fe with him right now. Instead, I was stuck here in bloody New York, with a broken heart, a broken arm, and a deranged Brooklynite.

The sob escaped.

"What's da mattah, prettyface?"

I froze in horror.

There was only one person in the world that that voice could belong to.

And he was sitting right beside me.