"So whatdaya do with these extra papers?" Jack asked curiously.

"Papes. 'Round here we call 'em papes, kid," Grip answered.

"Oh…Well, whatdaya do with the extras?" Jack repeated.

"You eat 'em,Francis" Grip said with a chuckle. Jack laughed along with him, then asked him again.

"I ain't kiddin', kid!" Grip responded more seriously. He patted Jack's back with his gloved hand. Jack frowned and sighed. It would take him awhile to get used to being a newsie. He glanced at Grip's hand, the one that was hidden by a brown, ragged leather glove. Jack smiled, that glove had a way of making him smile. When he had first met Grip four days ago, Grip told him about why he wore it.

"Ya see, I always gettin' in fights, kid, as ya saw. When I punch, I use this hand," Grip had said as he raised his right hand. "Now, ya knows that when ya soak punks every day, it rips up ya knuckles and bruises ya fist, right Francis?"

Jack nodded.

"Well, afta while, it makes ya hand raw and bloody. It ain't good for ya. So I gotta keep it gloved it so it don't get like that."

"So how wasFrancis's first meal of ink and paper?" Chalk asked when Grip and Jack walked into the lodging house.

"He loved it, didn't ya, Sullivan?" Grip answered. He threw his arm around Jack and shook him playfully.

"Uh-huh…" Jack muttered.

Chalk burst out laughing and ruf fled his hair.

"Atta boy!"

Chalk was the tallest newsie in the lodging house, standing at six feet, three inches. His real name was Elliot, but once he became a newsie he changed his name. He was incredibly skinny and very pale, like a stick of chalk (which earned him his nickname). His hair was black, like the soot on the hands of a coal miner, which made him appear even paler. Chalk's eyes were a striking blue, like a patch of azure sky on a cloudy day.

"How many didya eat, kid?" he asked.

Once again, Grip acted as Jack's mouth.

"He ate two!"

"Whatdaya do with the rest of the papes?"

"That was all he had, Chalk. He bought 40 papes and sold all but two!"

"Shucks! That's a lot a papes for…what, his third day! And he's only…How old are you, kid?"

Jack opened his mouth before Grip had a chance to respond for him.

"I'm thirteen"

"Geez, Grip! This kid is born to sell!"

"And who's the one who found 'im?"

Chalk rolled his eyes, teasingly punched Grip's arm, and walked upstairs. Grip grinned and shook his head, then followed him. Grip was a few inches shorter than Chalk, but less skinny and more built. His brown hair was tossed messily on his head and often damp with sweat. His arms were tattooed with scars from past fights, and his leg had a long, deep cut on it from a fight he'd got in when he first met Jack.

"Haha! Get 'im, Morris!" Oscar Delancey shouted to his brother. Morris kicked Jack again, making him tumble on cobblestone street. He leaned over and through a few strikes at Jack, connecting his fist with stomach. Oscar sprinted over to assist him.

"We ain't gonna forgive 'im for what his dad did to our aunt, right Oscar?" Morris asked. Oscar sneered, and replied by slamming his foot down on Jack's face. Jack screamed and grabbed Oscar's foot, managing to pull off his shoe. He smashed the heel of it into Morris's head, then lifted his knee to Oscar's jaw. They stumbled away from him, giving Jack enough time to pull himself up.

"YOU'RE DEAD NOW!" the Delancey's shouted.

"Leave 'im alone, ya bastards!"

Grip emerged from an alley, his face distorted in anger. The Delancey's squinted at him.

"Or what?"

"Or I'll be responsible for puttin' ya in your graves!"

Grip charged towards them and tackled them to the ground. Jack inched away until his back was resting on a building, the lodging house. He watched with startled eyes as Grip furiously soaked the brothers. At one point, Morris stood up and shoved Grip against a newspaper wagon. A sharp piece of metal was caught in the wheel, and tore open the flesh of Grip's calf. He winced and slammed his whole body against Morris, then ran towards Jack, limping.

"Let's get outta here, kid!" he ordered. Without speaking, Jack followed the injured Grip into the lodging house. Several newsies flocked around Grip and the new-comer.

"There 'e is!" Shay announced. He greeted Grip with a smack on the face.

"Hiya Shay! I heard 'bout how ya fooled that guy into buyin' three papes!"

"Oh yea, it was great, Grip! You shoulda seen it…"

Shay's voice faded into the sound of laughter and conversations emitted by the other newsies. Shay was one of the few black newsies of Manhattan, and he was proud of it. Although people sometimes gave him a hard time, he'd always handle it by secretly making them pay for more papes than they wanted. Grip drifted into the crowd of his "brothers" as they chatted about their day. Jack tagged along and took a seat on his bunk by Shay.

"- So then I says to 'im, I says 'No sir, of course I didn't change the headline. Ain't you able to read with those huge glasses of yours?'"

The room filled with even more hoots and chuckles. Jack felt shy at moments like this, and extremely lonely. Grip could sense this, though, and looked reassuringly at Jack.

"So, Francis, ya never did tell us why the Delanceys were soaking ya…" Grip said.

"Yeah, we all knows they're jerks, but they don't usually go afta kids 'round their age," Chalk stated. Jack swallowed and rolled his tongue over his teeth, his sign of hesitation.

"Come on, kid, you gotta know why!" Shay urged.

"My…uh…my dad hurt their aunt…" he finally said.

"Oh…What…uh…happened?" Grip asked. Jack was confused by Grip's ignorance and curiosity.

"He's in jail now…"

"That still don't explain what he did, Sullivan"

Jack was still astounded at Grip. He was a newsie, hadn't he read about it in the paper last week?

"Francis…"Grip whispered in a low voice.

"He raped her…"Jack retorted quietly.

Grip's eyes widened, as well as all the other newsies'. They all closed their mouths and the room became silent. All the cheer's radiation had burned out; the flame of happiness had been extinguished. Shay bit his lip, glanced at Jack, then the others.

"Well uh…It's getting late…We outta go to bed. We gotta carry our banner tomorrow, ya know? G'night…"

"G'night…" everyone said in unison.

Jack lay down, thinking about his father's crime. If his father hadn't done what he did, Jack wouldn't be on the streets. If his mother hadn't died during the birth of his younger brother, he wouldn't be here. But that's how reality works. It doesn't care about love, hate, or opinions. All it cares about is making sure that life goes on. And it would, no matter what Jack did.

Jack eyelids were squeezed tight as he coped with the pain in his hand. He stood by his mother as she screamed and grasped his hand for support. Her breaths were short and rapid as she delivered Jack's brother.

"GET YOUR FATHER!" she yelled.

"He's out!"

"GO FIND HIM, FRANCIS!"

"But...what about you?"

"Please!"

Jack pulled on his shoes and ran outside of his apartment. He started down the corner to the nearest bar, he was sure his dad would be there. He grabbed the doorknob, but his sweaty palms prevented him from opening the door. Jack wiped them on his pants then dashed inside. Sure enough, there was Mr. Sullivan, taking shots of whiskey.

"Dad! Mom's havin the baby!" he yelped.

"Heya Francis…What's that ya say?" his father answered with slurred words.

"Mom is having the baby!"

"That's great, kid…Tell her I said hi…"

Jack could tell his father was drunk and wouldn't help a bit.

"Bastard…" he mumbled as he left the bar. When he got back home, he was surprised that the screams had stopped.

"Mom? Ya alright?"

Jack walked into her bedroom, where she lay in a pile of blood covered sheets on her bed.

"Mom?"

Jack approached her, his body trembling. Her breathing was no longer rapid, nor shallow. She wasn't breathing at all. He reached for her hand, hoping to at least feel the familiar pain of her clutch.

"MOM!" Jack shouted. Suddenly, Jack remembered the baby. He pulled the sheets off of his mom and found a small baby, bloody and dead. Jack sobbed for the rest of the night, until his father stumbled into their apartment.

"Heya Francis!"

"IT'S A FINE LIFE, CARRYIN' THE BANNER THROUGH IT ALL!"

Jack awoke to Grip's singing, as he had been doing for the last few days. He tossed his sheets of his bed and got dressed, but unlike the others, Jack did not sing. When you sang, it meant to felt accepted among the newsies, and Jack did not. Everyone noticed this, and it embarrassed him slightly. He simply sulked during the solos and waited for the songs to be finished.

"Ya ain't too cocky, are ya, Sullivan? Got no confidence, no respect in yaself," Stealth said while the newsies were buying their papers. "If ya wanna make it big round here, ya gotta sell more papes. And to sell more, ya gotta buy more! I knows you're a good seller, so why are ya bein' weak with your money?"

"I'm savin' it…" Jack replied.

"For what, Sully? Food or clothes or something?" Stealth paused and smiled. "And if ya gots all that money, why ain't ya sharin' it with us?"

"I'm savin' it so I can go somewhere."

"Like what, a trip? You'd leave ya buddy Stealth here?"

"Nah…It's just…I dunno"

"Ya can't keep living your life not knowing, Sully. Where are ya goin'?"

"This place my mom wanted to go to…Out west"

"Ahh…And that would be?"

"Santa Fe"

"That's good of ya, kid, goin' there for your mother. But uh, why don't ya bring 'er with ya?"

"I can't"

"Because?"

"She ain't alive"

Stealth's jaw tightened. His gaze shifted around, hoping to avoid Jack's eyes. Stealth always thought he was to blame for putting people down. He always seemed to bring up a bitter memory. That is, after all, one reason they called him stealth. Every time he would start up a conversation, he would weave his way along, silent, then pop out a personal question.

"Sorry kid"