Jack noticed that David had been extremely quiet since the meeting had started, almost to the point that he'd forgotten David was there at all. Now, after hearing about this horrible, unbelievable monstrosity that had just happened to a close friend of theirs, Jack turned to the only person who could ease his mind in times of crisis: The Mouth.

The Mouth was clearly thinking hard about this new event, and Jack could visualize the gears turning in his mind, grinding out some fantastic analysis of Swifty's encounter with… whatever that thing was. He watched his friend's (clear sky) blue eyes closely, but David said nothing.

Everyone else, on the other hand, seemed to have something to say, and the restaurant erupted in fearful cries and shouting. Some waiters covered their mouths in shock, slinking to the kitchen out of sight.

"Jake's dead! Is that what yer sayin', Swifty?"

"Some lady killed Jake? How could that happen?"

"Whaddya mean? Whaddya mean killed? Who'd wanna do that?"

"We gotta call the bulls! We gotta get help—!"

"Hey," Race yelled over the noise, slamming his cards down and standing up, "ain't nobody callin' the bulls. They won't do nothin' to help us anyway." He looked at Jack with a hint of self-doubt, but spoke slowly and with confidence. "If we go to the cops they'll just tell us to stay out of it, and then whatever's out there could get another one of us. We need to deal with this on our own. Right, Jack?"

Jack thought about this, glancing over at David before answering. "No, we better not go to the bulls. However," and here he addressed everyone, "I wouldn't worry just yet. It's a terrible, fucked up thing that's just happened to our friend, and let's never forget him—"

"Wait, who's Jake?" somebody whispered off to the side.

"—but it's only one newsie, and it ain't like whoever did this to him is pickin' us off one by one. Here things are safe, and there's plenty o' people goin' about their daily lives. As long as we stay away from the north, we should be okay." This seemed to relax many of them, though only for awhile. "Now, Swifty," he turned to the bewildered boy, "you say that this, er, lady looked like she was dyin'?"

Swifty nodded, trembling all over at the recollection.

"And up the street you saw another person who looked like that too? Like he was dyin'?" Another nod, and Jack sighed, leaning over to Blink, Race and David. "Okay, whaddya think?" he asked quietly. "Is there some sort o' disease that's sweepin' over New York, or is Swifty nuts?"

"He's probably screwed up after seein' Jake die," Blink said, sadness in his voice. He twirled a finger by his temple to clarify his point. "I don't think anything he says can be dead right, on account of him bein' put into shock, y'know?"

"Like he's seein' things? Yeah, that makes sense. What do you think, Davey?" Jack looked at him hopefully.

"I don't know," was the answer, and Jack's face fell.

Skittery opened the door and he and Specs entered Tibby's unheard. He was immediately taken aback by the din of the crowd and the worried looks on everyone's faces – too severe to be worried simply about selling papes.

"What's goin' on?" he asked, tapping the nearest newsie on the shoulder. The boy turned around and Skittery instantly recognized Lashes, one of the newest to take up residence at the Lodging House.

Lashes was very curious to Skittery. Here was a boy their age with large green eyes, shiny like emeralds, and long, dark eyelashes – much like a girl's. He had delicate features and naturally smooth, clean skin; he wore bulky clothes and never seemed to go without at least three shirt layers, even when everyone else was getting changed in the morning or evening. Skittery sometimes thought Lashes even had breasts, though that didn't make sense and he was sure his eyes were playing tricks on him.

The strangeness didn't end there. Lashes was the only boy Skittery ever saw to not have an Adam's apple, and his voice was sort of high and funny. He was small and thin, and clearly hadn't been on the street very long. Despite this, Lashes was already one of the best sellers in their group, and furthermore there was nothing he couldn't do. He could beat Racetrack at poker, fire a slingshot as far as Spot Conlon, teach the little ones how to read, match wits with Jack in a charming, amusing way and even laugh at Crutchy's jokes. Because of all these good things, no one questioned his more mysterious qualities.

Skittery liked Lashes okay – everyone liked Lashes, it was hard not to – but Specs didn't trust him. Specs frequently said that there was something this kid was hiding, and admittedly his past was a complete mystery. He didn't talk about himself much; when someone asked a remotely personal question, he easily changed the subject with a joke or a game. The other night Specs had demanded Lashes answer his very simple question about where he'd come from and what his family was like, but upon hearing those words Lashes's eyes welled up with tears and he'd run from the room, crying like a girl.

Now, as he spotted Specs, Lashes pulled the brim of his cap down and looked away, embarrassed. Specs coughed and continued forward into the crowd, but Skittery stayed behind.

"Heya, Lashes, what's goin' on? We just got here."

"Oh, Skitts! It's the most awful thing; Swifty's just come back from uptown, and—"

"Oh yeah? We've just come from there."

That apparently startled Lashes, the color draining from his face as he asked, "Then did you see what happened?"

Skittery frowned. "Whaddya mean?"

"Swifty was sellin' with Jake, and Jake got killed!"

"WHAT?" Skittery cried.

"He says it was some weird old lady that came out of the shadows and just—it's horrible!—murdered Jake!" Lashes covered his face in his hands, and people began looking over at them.

"Well, uh, didja even know Jake?" Skittery asked in an attempt to comfort him. He leaned his walking stick against the wall and patted Lashes on the shoulder awkwardly.

"Of course I knew Jake – who doesn't know Jake? Jake and I would skip stones in our spare time, talking about life and… love." Lashes gently laid a hand on Skittery's forearm, looking up at him with coquettish eyes.

"But you've only been here one week," Skittery said, confused.

"You can get to know a person quite well in a week," Lashes sniffled. "And now… he's dead!"

A young newsie nearby burst into tears at this.

Specs glared around the room in serious thought. People were panicked, visibly shaken by the loss, and resorted to petty arguing as a distraction. Overhearing the main points of Swifty's story from a rambling, pale-faced Crutchy, he remembered Itey's fainting spell. His gaze landed on David, who was strangely silent, Racetrack, who was strangely without wisecracks, and Jack, who was strangely without a plan.

This wasn't like The Strike, Specs mused. During The Strike, there had been a clear problem and an unclear solution, but a strategy had been formulated early on and it was putting it in motion that was the risky part. But here, now, the problem itself was unclear, and no one seemed to know where to start.

That is to say, what do you do when your friend's been killed and there aren't even any people around to blame?

"H-hey, Jack," Blink suddenly said. "Isn't that Specs? Specs, hey!"

Jack looked up, and Specs turned in surprise, moving closer.

"Yeah, I'm here. So's Skittery."

"Look, I think it's very important we all keep a close eye on each other from now on," Jack announced, and people began to pay attention again. "We don't want an accident happenin' to anyone else. Where ya been, Specs?"

"Ya been uptown, right?" Blink asked.

"Skittery and me had to take Itey back to the Lodging House. He passed out this morning, so Kloppman is takin' care of him."

He glanced over his shoulder and saw Skittery trying to cheer up a little one, playing a game of rock-paper-scissors. Specs smiled. Then Lashes leaned his forehead against Skittery's chest, wiping away a tear, and Specs narrowed his eyebrows.

"I think we should keep a tally of who's missin' and who's present," Jack said. "Anyone got anything to write on?"

Mush grabbed a few napkins off the next table and a waiter's pencil. Jack pushed it over to David, who said nothing but obediently began to write. "Put a checkmark next to everyone who's here – Itey and Kloppman too, 'cause we know they're safe – and, uh, cross off Jake's name." He turned back to Specs. "Was Dutchy with you guys?"

Specs blinked. "Dutchy's missing?"

A very tired Dutchy threw his body against the wall of a bank, breathing hard, and closed his eyes. Aside from a throbbing ache in his shoulder, the pain wasn't so bad. The loss of blood was making it extraordinarily difficult to get anything done, or to even stay conscious for that matter, but Dutchy was determined.

He glanced around and tried to figure out where he was, avoiding the sight of his detached arm as best he could. It really made him sick thinking about it. How dare someone do that to him?

He realized (hazily, hazily) that he was near Duane Street. Thank God, he thought with relief, Kloppman knows how to sew.

Though the lack of one arm kept throwing off his balance, he was making good time – considering he probably shouldn't have lived through the ordeal. He got to the Lodging House in minutes and threw open the entrance door with a triumphant laugh.

The laugh and bang of the door, however, was the loudest noise to be heard on that block for an hour or two, and it attracted some attention. Two people – a father, with his young son – began to move toward him, groaning.

"Oooooooh… uuuuuuggghh…"

Dutchy's spine stiffened at the familiar sound. He turned, his hand still on the doorknob, and saw the figures on either side of him; their eyes were glossy and colorless. The small boy latched onto his leg and Dutchy screamed, struggling to kick him off. The father wrapped his hands around Dutchy's throat, choking him with surprising strength until Dutchy couldn't see very well anymore. He gagged and just barely made out the smell of rotting flesh; he would've stopped to ponder this had he not been fighting for his life.

He gave a violent shove with his free foot and kicked the son down the steps. He didn't know they were zombies, but he also didn't care what was prompting them to kill him. In his mind, that was reason enough to defend himself whatever way he could.

Gripping his severed arm like a weapon, he smacked it over the man's head and suddenly he could breathe again. He whirled around and beat it over the man's head again and again, again and again, blood smattering everywhere, until one mighty blow sent him down the stairs beside his child. Dutchy ran inside and slammed the door shut, pushing a large piece of furniture in front of it as a barrier.

"Kloppman! Kloppman, where the hell are ya?" he shouted nervously, leaning over the counter. He saw no one. The moaning returned and the two figures beat on the door, throwing themselves against it over and over. Dutchy ran up the stairs, howling Kloppman's name.

"Snipeshooter?"

"Here!"

"Boots?"

"Yep!"

"Tumbler?"

"Uh-huh!"

"Ten-Pin?"

"Yeah, I'm here, Jack."

"Okay. And put a question mark next to Dutchy's name," he told David. David did so and handed over the completed list. "So here's who's missing then. Jake," here Jack lowered his eyes and frowned, "who ain't comin' back; Dutchy, who nobody's heard from since we first bought papes this mornin'; Itey, who's with Kloppman, and Snitch…"

Snitch. Snitch.

Snitch.

As if a fog had lifted, Itey's earlier words rushed to Skittery's ears and rattled through his head like a scream.

"He's dead! Some guy killed Snitch – killed him cold dead!"

"I remember now!" Skittery shouted, waving off Lashes and pushing through the crowd. "Jack, I remember! When I found Itey," his voice was rising hysterically as he got closer to the front of the room, "he told me that some guy killed Snitch! He told me that Snitch is dead – and that's when Itey passed out! Jesus Christ!" He began to laugh uncontrollably, but it sounded strange and foreign to him. "Snitch is dead!"

"Have you lost yer fuckin' mind, Skittery?" Jack demanded, and the restaurant exploded in terrified cries.

"Oh my God." Blink looked over at Mush, whose face was completely drained of color. "Oh my God."

"I can't—I can't believe—" It was really scaring Skittery that he couldn't stop laughing, but the shock was too great to act logically. "I'm sorry, I really am sorry—"

An unlit cigarette dangled from Racetrack's lips. "I don't fuckin' believe this," he muttered, cradling his head in his hands.

Jack was trembling in anger. "Skittery, what the hell happened? Did Itey really say that? Was he serious?"

"I—I—hahahaha!—I just can't believe I didn't remember—!"

Swifty hurried across the restaurant to the bathroom, clutching his stomach in revulsion. Specs put a firm hand on Skittery's shoulder, squeezing it, and abruptly he was able to regain control of himself.

"Y-yeah, he was serious." Skittery looked at his shoes, thoroughly ashamed of his outburst and struck by the realization that he would never see Snitch again. His eyes began to water. "Itey told me, shakin' and white… but I guess… I guess I couldn't handle it and forgot…"

Jack ran a hand through his hair, now sticky with sweat, and turned to David helplessly. To his surprise, The Mouth spoke.

"They've got to go back to the Lodging House," he said quietly, "and find out from Itey what happened."

Jack stared at him and almost smiled. "You guys, ya—please! You guys, we gotta get some order here. Be quiet!" he yelled, severity evident in his tone. Skittery rubbed his face in his hands and willed himself not to cry. "What we need, here, is for some people to go back to the Lodging House. Specs and Skittery, I think you two should go back since you're the ones who found Itey. Maybe he'll be more comfortable seein' you'se two."

Specs nodded and patted Skittery on the back. David cleared his throat.

"Swifty should go too, to see if his description of the attackers matches Itey's story." His voice was low and barely audible.

"Swifty!" The boy slowly emerged from the bathroom, terrified. "Swifty, we need ya to go with Specs and Skittery, and – Race, Mush, you two go with 'em for back-up – see if Itey's experience was like yours. Sorry, I know it's gonna be tough on you," Jack added, seeing the look on his face.

"I'll go too!" Lashes shouted from the back.

The last thing Skittery wanted to do was go back out on the streets – out where people got absorbed into alleyways and vanished without rhyme or reason. He thought that maybe Jack, with all his talk of bravery, or David, with all his fancy planning, should get out there and wake up Itey and see if maybe he wasn't too emotionally disturbed to relive the death of his best friend for a few minutes.

But Skittery hadn't been feeling too good about himself lately, hadn't been feeling like he had anything to offer the world or the people around him, and Skittery thought that maybe now was the time to change things.

And so the group of six, with all the courage they could muster, made their way out into the city—Skittery grabbing his walking stick and letting the door slam behind him as the clock struck noon.