Skittery was sure his sight was playing tricks on him, because all he could see of his attacker was a pair of bloodshot eyes and a few yellow teeth gleaming at him. Slowly, the outline of a man emerged from the trash pile.

"Wha—" Skittery's heart was pounding so hard it was making speech difficult. "What the hell—?"

A strangled laugh cut him off abruptly. The man tugged his leg and dragged Skittery closer to him. He could see now that the man was blending into the surroundings because his skin was blackened with soot and filth. Skittery reached for his walking stick a few feet away.

"S-so you're a bum," he said, in hopes that talking would distract the vagrant from noticing. His voice came out a little higher than he would have liked. "Just a bum." His fingers had just wrapped around the stick when the man smacked it back down roughly.

"I'm the Newspaper Man!" he shrieked in his face, breath heavy with drink. Thick saliva gathered between his lips as he spoke. "The Newspaper Man!" Skittery's grip tightened around his walking stick. He grimaced with fear, noticing that the bum's trash heap was indeed made of newspapers. "Gimme yer newspapers, boy!"

Skittery smiled weakly and tensed his arm. "F-for a buck, I might—"

He cracked his stick across the Newspaper Man's shoulder with all the force he could summon. There was a sickening crunch and a yelp of pain. He clambered to his feet and ran across the alleyway as fast as his legs could carry him, never pausing to look back.

When the light of day hit his eyes once more, he slowed his pace slightly and concentrated on getting his heart to quiet down. He coughed and wiped his face with his sleeve. The noise of the streets and the heat of the sun never seemed more inviting. He felt a little inspired.

"Dis just in!" he yelled, slightly louder than necessary. "Madman busts outta jail and takes refuge in local alleyways!"

Several people rushed over and bought papers. Taking what had just happened and spinning it into something positive felt good – almost as good as the change jingling in his pocket. His stomach rumbled and he decided to head over to Tibby's for lunch, already sick of this side of town and just hoping to walk off the whole experience.

As he traveled, the flap from his torn pants fluttered against his shin. The material stretched and the hole was already increasing in size. He sighed, realizing he'd have to somehow get a new pair of slacks sooner than he wanted. His newly exposed knee was cut up and bloody, causing his leg to ache every other step. Between that and the walking stick he felt kind of like Crutchy, and promptly felt bad for his earlier comments. He'd have to apologize when he saw him.

He was able to sell a few more papes along the way, and his spirits lifted just a little. He lit up a cigarette, his pack getting dangerously light. He breathed in the smoke and blew it out again steadily, the pounding of his chest finally subsiding. He laughed at the absurdity of it all, and at the terror he felt. By the time the cigarette had burned down to his fingertips, he had reached Tibby's. He opened the door and bumped into Racetrack.

"Oh, heya Skitts," he said, chewing on a cigar.

"Hey, Race." He went to move past him, but Racetrack was looking him up and down, alarmed. He sighed. "Headed over to Sheepshead?"

"Yeah, I was sellin' at the park for awhile. Now's I got enough money for the tracks. What the hell happened to you?"

"Whaddya mean, Race?" Skittery asked, feigning ignorance. He really didn't want to talk about what had just transpired.

"Ya got crap all over ya," Racetrack said, gesturing first to Skittery's pant-leg, marked with a black handprint. "Your pants is torn," he added, using his cigar as a pointer, "and there's blood on your walkin' stick."

This last detail surprised Skittery, and he felt the color leave his face when he realized it to be true. He tore off the loose piece of fabric from his pants and used it to wipe off the stick, quickly throwing it away. He realized Racetrack was staring at him, awaiting an explanation.

"I, uh, I fell down before, cut my knee," he reiterated, "and I guess when I touched it I got blood, y'know, here and there." He knew it was a lame response, but a reasonable one. Race squinted at him, his eyes boring into his face. Damned guy could always recognize a bluff.

"How'd ya fall down?" he asked skeptically.

"Tripped over a bunch of milk cans, watching a dame." Racetrack instantly forgot his doubt and doubled over laughing. Skittery rolled his eyes and scratched his head repeatedly, waiting for Race to compose himself. The itching had diminished earlier but now it had returned with a vengeance.

"Aw man, Skitts, you kill me…" Race panted. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and sighed, lightly giving Skittery a slap on the face. After a moment he noticed the scratching. "Whattsa matter? Ya got lice or somethin'?"

Skittery frowned. Just what he needed. "Guess so," he said, causing the short Italian to step back.

"Remind me not to share a towel wit'cha," Race said. He spotted a carriage trekking down the street. "Gotta go, there's me ride. I'll see ya later – watch out for milk cans!" With that he crept, rat-like, behind the carriage, and disappeared from sight.

Skittery entered Tibby's, shelled out fifteen cents for a knockwurst, and sat down at an empty table, Race's voice ringing in his ears. Skittery knew with a certainty that he didn't have for the others that Racetrack would end up just fine in life. In a few years he'd be too old for selling papes, but soon enough he'd land a job at Sheepshead as a bookie or work in the stables. They liked him there, and even if they didn't, nobody could say no to Race. Things had a weird way of always working out for him, no matter what hand he was dealt. Some days, thinking about that made Skittery feel kind of proud to know him, and lucky to be his friend. But today Skittery swore that if Race ever smacked him again, he'd break those card-dealing fingers of his.

He munched on the knockwurst and took a swig of root beer, the same food he'd eaten for years. It was so familiar he could no longer taste it, but at least it was filling. Spending fifteen cents on lunch meant spending five for dinner, if that.

There was a throbbing in his leg, so he bent over to examine his knee. It was starting to scab over, but there was dirt in the wound. He dipped the tip of his napkin in the root beer – thinking the bubbles might eat away any germs – and pressed it against the cut.

He flinched. There was a searing pain, but it felt good to clean it. He finished up his meal, went to wash his hands, and left the restaurant.

It was always harder to sell during the afternoon, as many of the news-conscious citizens were at work. He decided to just head in the direction of Little Italy and see whose ears he could catch. He scratched his head a few more times, his hair getting greasier each time he handled it, and set off.

After several unsuccessful attempts at pushing the headline, a darkening began to settle. He could feel it in his stomach and behind the eyes - a dull throbbing in his head. As he walked, dust and dirt clouded around his feet. Nothing but squalor, everywhere. Shop after shop with windows that were nearly opaque with filth. Smudged faces and the tattered clothes of strangers. The grime of the city was getting to him; nothing seemed clean, unless it belonged to a rich person, and if it belonged to a rich person than it was polluted, too.

"Escaped prisoner livin' right under our noses!" he announced with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. A burly, mustachioed barber who had been sweeping the steps in front of his shop tapped Skittery on the shoulder.

"I'll take one of those," he said gruffly, handing him a penny. Skittery tipped his hat to him and gave him the paper. He was about to continue on his way when he noticed his shoe was untied and bent down.

The barber opened up the paper, his eyes skimming for the information he'd been sold. "Wait a minute, Alfred Dreyfus…?" Skittery heard the man say to himself. He knew. His eyes shot up from his laces, when suddenly the barber yanked Skittery up by the back of his shirt.

"Hey, I—"

"You're a liar!" he seethed, and raised his broom to strike him. "Ya rotten street rat, I want my money back—"

Skittery wrenched himself free, dropping a few of his papers in the process, and ran like mad for a block and a half. Once the shouts of the barber faded out of earshot, Skittery slowed to a walk, panting and grinding his teeth. This hadn't been the first time he'd forgotten to bolt after selling a fabricated headline, and he figured it wouldn't be the last.

He passed by a brick wall plastered with advertisements. He stopped and stared at one poster in particular, which seemed to be marketing chewing gum. It depicted a drawing of a sad man with a rain cloud over his head. The caption read: "Feeling glum? Have some gum!"

Skittery felt a tightening in his jaw, something that had developed recently and was causing his mouth to pop sometimes while he ate. He scowled and moved on. At one point he thought he saw Mush, and went out of his way to avoid him. He wasn't sure why.

Another time he heard the voices of the Delancey Brothers. He hadn't seen them since the strike ended, and had no desire to now. In a perverse way, Skittery almost liked the Delanceys. They were such lowlifes – they'd pick on women, children and cripples, for God's sake – that it was acceptable to hate them, even expected. So hate them he did, without guilt or remorse.

He was walking past a trashcan when a crying stopped him. It was a whimpering, like that of a small animal. He didn't have a good feeling about this. Everything in his body was telling him to ignore it and move on; pretend it was a cat with a broken leg or something. He stared at it resentfully.

Skittery laughed in spite of himself; it sounded strange and far away. Biting his lip, he looked around one last time and opened the lid. A little boy, curled up in the garbage, peered back up at him, eyes red and cheeks stained with tears.

Author's Note: I just wanted to mention that if anyone sees any historical inaccuracies in my stories, for God's sake tell me! Any time I have a doubt whether or not something existed during the time period, or am unsure of the distance between certain New York districts, I try my best to research it, but even then I can make mistakes. I want my facts to be as straight as possible, so please let me know if you see something incorrect. Thanks!

Total Havoc: Sorry, but as you'll see the Alfred Dreyfus headline and the bum in the alleyway have no connection whatsoever. The headline was really an event in September 1899, but Alfred Dreyfus was a French military officer who was wrongly convicted of treason and sent to the Devil's Island prison located near French Guiana. So as neat of a plot twist as that would be – Dreyfus being the crazed loon who attacked Skittery – there's no way I could get away with that. ;)

Special thanks to all those who have reviewed so far! You guys make my day.