Skittery felt his heart drop. The child looked terrified out of his mind. Neither was sure what to do, so they both stared at each other. Skittery wished he could put the lid back and forget about the kid altogether.

He decided lifting him out of the trash was a better idea. The urchin clung to him and continued to sob. He appeared to be about five years old, and smelled like rotting food. Skittery awkwardly patted him on the back in an effort to soothe him. The child sniffled and sighed, dampening Skittery's shoulder with tears and snot and drool. Finally, the crying subsided.

"What's your name, kid?" he asked quietly.

"J-Joseph." His voice was barely above a whisper and sounded stuffy.

"Okay, Joseph," Skittery said, looking around desperately, "what's the matter?"

The kid shook his head and began to cry again. Skittery felt his innards squirm. He didn't ask for this. He didn't want to get involved. Why was life always doing this to him?

He put Joseph down on his feet and looked him square in the eye.

"Kid – Joseph – wouldja stop, just stop crying? Damn it." He offered his sleeve to the boy and let him wipe his nose on it. "Now, is there anything I can do for ya?"

Joseph noticed the newspapers under Skittery's arm and pointed to them.

"Oh, ya wanna be a newsie, is that it? You're runnin' away and ya wanna be a newsie." The kid nodded, caught sight of something behind Skittery and hid behind the trashcan.

Skittery glanced back and saw a frail woman, a few years younger than himself, looking around anxiously. He rubbed his face with his hands, and did his best to keep his voice calm.

"Look, Joseph, not every kid off the street can become a newsie. It's a lotta work to be walkin' around all day. Ya gotta have tough feet and a loud voice, and you don't have neither. There's not enough room in the lodging houses, unless you'se can pay – dat's why you see little ones sleeping under their papes and curled up on heating grates at night. If you're lucky ya can find a building to sneak into, but those kids usually get caught and sent to the orphanage." He stared down at the child, who now looked more helpless than ever.

"So's that your sister?" Joseph nodded. "Ya maybe wanna go back to her?" He didn't react, so Skittery handed him his walking stick to carry and picked him up again.

They headed over to the girl. With some trouble, Skittery managed to remove his cap, his hair sticking up at all ends. "Uh, Miss? 'S he yours?" he asked.

She turned to him, and he felt a sinking in his stomach. She was even feebler up close. Her mousy-brown hair was scraggly, with strands of it falling out of the lop-sided bun she had attempted. She had a black eye that made her cheeks seem sunken into her face, and a dress that was too big for her slight physique. She had clearly grown up faster than her body could handle.

"Joseph," she murmured, and took the boy from his arms. Skittery grabbed the stick back, surprised that she could hold something even as small as a child; she looked like the weight would cause her to bend and crash to the ground. She whispered a few words into Joseph's ear, calmed him down and sent him back into the apartment building behind her. She turned her sad eyes on Skittery, who wondered if he was doing the right thing after all.

He had no idea what to say. "You two'll be okay?" was a pointless question, because he knew the answer; it was imprinted on her face in shades of black and blue. He swallowed a lump in his throat. He'd seen an uncountable number of women with shiners – not excluding his own mother - but it never got any easier to witness.

"Thank you," she said quietly, saving him from having to speak. He nodded weakly as she stepped closer to him and placed a delicate hand on his arm. He watched her long, thin fingers snake around his bicep, and for some reason felt like shivering. There was a burning beneath her touch, as if her fingerprints were branding themselves there, but his insides went cold. His eyes slowly followed up her arm to her face and his heart began to pound. She looked so damned miserable. He flushed with shame and tightened his grip around his walking stick. He didn't know what to do.

"Yeah," was all he said, and looked away. Her hand lingered on his arm a little longer before it dropped carelessly to her side. Skittery scratched his head and avoided her gaze until she turned and walked into the building.

Skittery could have had a sister.

He realized his heart was beating similarly to when he had encountered the Newspaper Man earlier. He felt nauseated, and squinted into the sunlight. All he wanted was for the day to end.

Again he decided to turn back. There was nothing awaiting him, only things he could return to. Besides, his feet were killing him.

A few streets down he heard shouts and the occasional ringing of a bell. He jogged until the sight of a boxing ring came into view. There was a mass of people around it, taking bets and egging on the fighters. Skittery took a seat on a barrel and watched for awhile.

He liked boxing matches. He liked them because they were free, first and foremost, but there was also something else about them. They made him feel a certain way, a way that he couldn't quite describe. Human was the closest word he could come up with; the fights made him feel human.

A hand plopped down on his shoulder. Skittery flinched, fully expecting to see the angry barber again, or the battered sister, and whirled around.

Blue eyes. Brown, curly hair. Freckles.

Momentary relief.

"Hey, Davey."

"Skittery!" David said, smiling. "Thought that was you. How are you doing?"

Skittery shrugged. People never asked that expecting a real answer anyway.

"What're you doing here? Selling?" David continued.

"Nah, just decided to catch a breeze, y'know?" Skittery got up, figuring David would want to talk. David always wanted to talk.

"Slow day today, huh?" David said as they left the area. "Jack says everybody's had trouble selling."

"Yeah, slow day, all right." Skittery struggled not to sigh audibly.

In the beginning, Skittery couldn't help but respect David, because he was smart and he easily took Jack down a peg or two. Even when Jack and David became a team, taking themselves seriously as crusade leaders, Skittery had to admire the guts it took to face Pulitzer. But after the strike, he soon realized that when David's father got his job back, David would have no desperate need to sell papes anymore – he would be doing it for the love of the job. Skittery himself would give anything to be able to quit hocking headlines and go to school, study something worthwhile. And here David was, throwing that opportunity away for the World. The World. It made him sick.

"So how's your dad, Davey?"

"Well, Dr. Weinberg – that's our family doctor, Dr. Weinberg – came over the other day to do some tests. His arm's just about healed now, he says. Another week or two and he can go back to the factory."

"Ya think they'll rehire him?"

David thought about this. "Well, if he can't get his old job back, he'll probably be able to get another one like it. He's a good worker, has plenty of experience."

"And I guess you'll be goin' back to school?" Skittery asked, glaring at David out of the corners of his eyes. David ran a hand through his hair and sighed.

"I don't know. That's what my folks want. And I promised Dad I would, but…" He trailed off, staring at the armful of papers he had left.

"But what?" Skittery said testily, and scratched his scalp.

"But, well, I like being a newsie. I like this new life, and you guys - my friends. I care about you guys, y'know? I care about what I do."

Skittery stopped walking. He couldn't believe that David was saying this to him. He couldn't believe the nerve.

David also stopped, and turned around to face Skittery. "Something wrong?"

Skittery stuck out his jaw and clasped his walking stick tightly, watching his knuckles turn white. He cleared his throat. Remain calm.

"Y'know, Davey, I could've got an education," he said finally. David didn't say anything, so Skittery stepped closer to him. He spoke slowly, allowing each word to sink in. "I could've gone to school. I did, for a couple years, until I came home one day and found my old man dead in our livin' room."

David swallowed. Skittery ignored this.

"Because my old man died, and left us nothin', not a God-damned penny to our names, guess what I had to do? Get a fuckin' job. Get a job to help support my mom. Nine years old and I was a damned newsboy. Like Les, 'cept I didn't have an older brother to share the work." Skittery could feel the tightening in his jaw again. "Now, my mom left after a year o' this. She left so I wouldn't hafta worry about her no more. And I been a newsie since then, learning nothin' but how to hate the World. And I'll tell ya, there's not a day dat goes by I don't wish I could go back to school and make somethin' of myself."

He looked at David for another moment and turned away. "Nice talkin' to ya, Dave." With that, he strolled off, glancing back only once to see David staring at the ground, deep in thought. He looked shaken.

Skittery smiled to himself, though he felt no joy. Now he couldn't believe his own nerve; he didn't feel guilty about talking down to David - because he felt, in all fairness, the guy had it coming - but to confide in him? To reveal even a shred of his personal history, and with David? His smile faded. He'd broken an oath he long ago swore with himself, and now it seemed possible that anything could happen. It was like something was building inside him, and he wasn't sure he could hold it back for much longer.

He wandered down a crowded street with a heavy conscience, these thoughts pressing down on his mind, and decided to give up selling papers for the day. He couldn't find the will to bother trying. It didn't matter anyway; since the strike ended, it had been worked out so that the newsies could get their money back from the distribution office for their unsold papes. He could make back enough money for the lodging house and a bite of food, and that was good enough for tonight.

He tore his gaze away from his shoes and saw something up ahead. A little girl with dimples, maybe four years old, waiting a few feet away from her mother who was buying fruit at a produce stand. The girl had on a daisy-white frock, and her light brown curls were shining in the sunlight. She looked like what Skittery imagined angels looked like.

Skittery liked little girls, but he didn't dare say that aloud. He was worried it would make him sound sick, or crazy, even though he didn't like them in a wrong way. It wasn't bad, his fondness for them – it was just affection for something so foreign to his life. He enjoyed watching them from afar, because they were so different from boys. Little girls were soft, and sweet, and pure. He liked girls until they grew up, when they learned enough to reject him.

This little girl looked back at him, and smiled. It was a wide grin for a stranger who held no potential threat, only friendship. It was the wide grin of a youth with no understanding of responsibility, misery, or everyday strife. It was a wide grin that made Skittery's heart rise and swell like bread dough, and he returned it gladly.

Suddenly, a man brusquely pushed past her, knocking her down in a dry puddle of mud. The man didn't even glance back or break his stride to see what he had done, only quickened his pace. The girl burst into tears, staring helplessly at her dirt-caked dress and her scraped hands and knees. Skittery watched in trepidation. The happy, perfect world around her had shattered, and all she could feel now was confusion and hurt.

Something was building inside of him, and then it broke.

Author's Note: Oh, the angst. One or two (I'm thinking two) chapters to go. –hugs Skittery!Muse- The other day I thought I saw Michael Goorjian walking down the streets of White Plains, and my heart skipped a beat. Wasn't him, though. –pout- A girl can dream, can't she?

In response to GeekOnDisplay (great name, btw) – according to Wikipedia, chewing gum did exist. Some fun (read: useless) facts:

-In 1848 John B. Curtis developed and sold the first commercial chewing gum called The State of Maine Pure Spruce Gum.

-William Semple filed the first patent on chewing gum (patent number 98,304) on December 28, 1869.

Wikipedia, my old friend. Anyway, R&R, please! Reviews are the awesome.