Author's Note: Thanks to Ivory Novelist, Andi, Greta Darken, and Phantasmagoric PsychoJello for their reviews! And thanks for the info about Welton's location. For my intents and purposes, let's say Welton is somewhere in New England—either New Hampshire or Vermont. Enjoy!

Even the fear that he would be sleeping on a park bench in the middle of December couldn't' quell Neil's excitement. He had only been to New York City once, with his parents two years before, and that was to visit an old friend of his father's. They had stayed at a moderately priced hotel and gotten steak for dinner. Neil had secretly wanted to see a Broadway show, but his father had already deemed them to be overpriced wastes of time. Now, everything was open to Neil—the shows, the poetry readings, the smoky nightclubs, the rush of taxis and the smooth sounds of jazz. Already he had passed more people than he had ever seen back home. The air was different, filled with the smells of car exhaust, hot dogs, expensive perfumes, Chinese food, garbage, leather handbags. Although his body kept reminding him that he had not slept more than an hour in the past day, he felt a sense of exhilaration greater than any he had experienced before.

His grumbling stomach led him to a small diner. Perusing the menu and then leafing through the contents of his wallet, Neil realized that he had better get a job, fast. In a city this size, someone's gotta be hiring,, he assured himself.

"What'll it be, kid?" the waitress, an small older woman with salt-and-pepper hair and thick black glasses.

Her question stung for a second. Kid? How young did he look? "Scrambled eggs and toast. And coffee." They were never allowed coffee at Welton. Ordering it now made him feel more confident.

"Coming right up."

She walked briskly away, shouting diner jargon to the chef. Neil extracted a piece of paper and a pen from his pocket and moved to begin writing, but he had no idea what he would say. Dear Todd, I'm sorry I didn't tell you I was leaving; it just happened. But I'm okay so don't worry about me. Oh, right, the guys would love that. He knew he couldn't risk sending any information right now—Nolan might be opening any mail any of the Dead Poets got, just in case. Dear Mr. Keating, I'm finally doing what I always wanted to do. Well, that wasn't exactly true right now. Sure, he was in New York, but he didn't have a job, a place to stay, or any real plan to speak of. He'd write an enthusiastic letter later, when he had something to be enthusiastic about. Dear Mother, Please don't worry about me. I'm fine, but I couldn't stay in that house any longer. Please don't try to find me. Too late for that. Neil imagined his father storming into Mr. Nolan's office, demanding that they help find his son, while his mother cried into her handkerchief in the background.

The waitress slid a plate in front of him. "Here ya go. Pay up front."

"Thanks." She was about to walk away when Neil piped up. "Oh! Sorry, but do you know any cheap places to stay around here? A hotel, hostel, something?"

She tapped her long, painted fingernails on the counter while she thought. "Well, there's a YMCA not too far from here. Go south eight blocks, then take a left on 58th street. You can't miss it—big sign out front. That's about as cheap as you'll get without sharing a room with too many cockroaches."

"Thanks." He smiled and happily dug into his breakfast. He wouldn't be out on the street tonight! Eventually he'd want to get his own place, maybe a small apartment, find a roommate or two if he could, but for now he was glad to simply have some kind of direction. Not too bad, Neil, he told himself, grinning into his coffee cup.

The YMCA was an unremarkable brick building at the corner of 58th street. Had it not been for the faded sign outside and the waitress's accurate directions, Neil would have missed it completely. There were a couple of window boxes on the first floor, but whatever flowers might have grown there during the spring had died and not been cleaned out. Cigarette butts were scattered along the side of the building. Pigeons congregated by the stairs, bobbing their heads as they strutted and hoped for the crumbs of someone's sandwich. They scattered as Neil swept passed.

The front lobby was just as plain as the building. An older man with glasses stood behind a counter.

"Hi," Neil said warmly as he stepped up to the counter. "I'm looking for a room."
"Well, you've come to the right place." Neil couldn't' tell if the man's tone was warm or veiled with sarcasm. "How long will you be here?"

"A little while. I just need a place to stay until I can find something more permanent," Neil explained.

The man pulled out a large book and quietly consulted it for a moment. "Room 5B is available—comes with a bed, a Bible, and a sink. There's a hall bathroom a couple doors down from your room."

"Sounds great." When Neil pulled out his wallet to pay for the week, he realized that he'd better get a job soon. Looks like it'll be dry cereal and tap water for a little while, he told himself as he followed the man up a flight of stairs.

"My name's Jeffery McGregor," the man said as he led Neil up. "Most people just call me McGregor. I run this place. I have simple rules—no overnight visitors, no pets, no loud music or otherwise causing a disturbance, pay for your room on time, no starting trouble with the others. If you destroy YMCA property, you pay for it. If you break one of these, I'll give you a warning or ask you to leave, depending on the situation. Think you can handle that?"

Neil, used to the strict rules of Welton, nodded good-naturedly. "I don't think that'll be a problem."

"Good." McGregor was breathing heavily now that they had made it to the fifth floor. "Hope you can handle the walk up." In front of 5B, he extracted a key from his pocket and struggled with the doorknob. "This one's a little tricky—you've gotta turn the key to the left while holding the knob and then turning the knob to the right, pulling on it a little before you push."

He shoved the door open to reveal a particularly Spartan room. Well, McGregor sure didn't lie about the room, Neil thought as he took in the bed, sink, and nightstand complete with Bible. The walls were a dingy off-white (they might have been white once, or so Neil guessed) and the carpet was a burnt orange. The room smelled faintly of mildew and moth balls.

"Enjoy." McGregor allowed Neil to step inside the room and was about to march away when he said, "Hey, kid, I forgot—what's your name?"
Neil opened his mouth to answer, and then realized that his parents might be looking for him in the city. Instantly he thought of the previous night when, for a moment, he had been someone different. "Robin. Robin Goodfellow," he answered, unable to contain a grin.

"Well, Rob, let me know if you need anything." With that, McGregor disappeared down the hall.

The room was unimpressive, to be sure, but after sharing a plain room at Welton, Neil felt both liberated and intimidated—his own room in New York City. He'd made it this far, and surely this would be a sign of good things to come.

To be continued…please review!