Kloppman breathed deeply, settling in to the uncomfortable wooden rocking chair. The morning had been hectic- but awaking his kids usually was. They always managed to make him smile, though, and he welcomed his time with the newsies.

After seeing them out the door, the old man had searched for sheets and blankets in need of washing. He dumped them in a wash pile near his small apartment on the first floor, and put fresh ones in their place. The man took pride in little things, and enjoyed leaving little treats under pillows, such as a small piece of candy or coloring pages for the youngest kids. It wasn't much, but it didn't go unappreciated.

At the end of this particular mornings laundry switch, the old man had walked back down the stairs and in to his room. Joey, the smallest of their unconventional family, was temporarily sharing Kloppman's apartment. The boy had been given quite a beating, and although he was recovering well, the tiny frightened child did not like being alone. So, of course, the kind landlord, who was much like a grandfather to the newsies, opened his room to Joey. Kloppman now sat next to his bed, checking to make sure the boy was alright.

Just as he had closed his eyes for a bit of rest, a great ruckus echoed from the second floor. Kloppman chuckled and thought, 'The new kids must be awake.' Getting up out of the chair, Kloppman left the room quietly, shutting the door behind him, careful not to wake Joey.

Minutes later, the stairs creaked under the weight of two girls as they made their way down to the lobby. The older, Chloe as he recalled, smiled cheerfully. "Morning, sir."

"Oh you can jist call me Kloppman. How was yer night?" he asked.

The smaller girl lifted her chin, answering, "It was great! Just the morning was real close to going real bad 'cause Chloe wouldn't get up."

Chloe smacked Dora lightly on the back of the head. "Yeah, yeah."

Kloppman's eyes sparkled as he chuckled, "Well, glad ta hear it din't go bad, den. How does a lil breakfast sound?"

"Racetrack, this just isn't working out. Look, I'm sorry, but I can't do this." Freddie sighed, exasperated. His arm was aching, his fingers were black, and his throat was raw. He decided he absolutely did not like selling newspapers, and sat down on the curb.

Race yelled out the headline excitedly, thanking a man who handed him money for a paper. He turned, "Ah, come on Fred. It's jist yer foist day. Yer doin' great!"

Freddie glanced at the few newspapers wedged in the crook of Racetrack's arm, then frowned down at the pile beside him. He mumbled, "Yeah, great."

Race laughed, and took half of Freddie's pile, "Alright alright, stop mopin' already. I'll help ya out." After Freddie made no move to stand, "Come on, ya gotta try. Nobody's gonna buy from ya wit yer bum planted on da ground."

Freddie moaned dramatically and pushed himself up from the curb.

Racetrack leaned over, whispering a headline in Freddie's ear. He raised one eyebrow, "Are you serious?"

Racetrack nodded slowly, pursing his lips. "Dat's what sells, kid."

Freddie cleared his throat, ready to make another attempt at being a newsie. As he knelt down to take a few papers from his pile, a gust of wind raked through the street, sending papers flying. Freddie cried out, stepping on the remainder of his pile, and flailing to catch the rest.

Race put a hand on Freddie's shoulder, "Pay 'em no mind, kid. Ya got plently left." He said, laughing.

Freddie rolled his eyes and stood on his thinning stack.

Not too far away, a wind blown paper came to a rest on the dusty street. The pages had opened, leaving page three exposed. An unimportant man plucked the paper off the street and showed it to his wife, "Look dear, it's another article about that terrible house fire- those poor children."

The man's wife looked troubled, "They're still missing! Just think of what could've happened to them!"