Spot stood frozen in the center of the room, eyes fixed on the figure in Lucky's arms. She didn't move, her small body was limp, and for a brief, hellish moment, Spot prepared himself for the worst.

He crossed the room in two long strides, arms outstretched to relieve the Bronx leader of his precious burden. Pocket let out a soft moan, and Spot found he could breathe again.

She fought against him as she started to wake up, and his heart caught when he saw how weak she was. He sank down onto the sofa, cradling her gently. Her struggles ceased when she opened her eyes and saw where she was. She smiled up at him, wincing at the pain in her split lip.

"Katie," he whispered as she reached up to wrap her arms around his neck.

Spot stroked her hair, holding her close, letting her relax into him. Over her head he saw Twitchy, Lucky's second in command, walk in carrying Slips.

"Get Kloppman," Pocket instructed. David ran off to find the old man.

Pocket insisted that Kloppman tend to Slips before she would allow him to look her over. Both of the little spy's eyes were blackened and his leg was bent at an odd angle. Kloppman pronounced the leg broken and directed Twitch to carry the little boy upstairs so he could set it.

They all cringed at the cries of pain that drifted down the stairs. Only when the yelling stopped and Kloppman came back down did she relax.

"He's sleeping now," the old man said. "Just have to hope that leg heals up right."

Satisfied that Slips was taken care of, Pocket finally submitted to having her wounds cleaned. Once her lip was seen to, he started on her battered knuckles, leaving her free to answer Spot's questions.

"What happened?" he asked anxiously. "Last thing I saw was you fightin' wit one o' dem Delanceys."

"I saw 'em take ya," she told him, "but when I tried ta go afta, Morris got in my way." She spoke quickly, and it was obvious she was leaving out details. "I got rid of him, then I was tryin' ta get me an' Slips out. Couldn't go out da front, so I went for the stairs, but I fell cuz –"

She broke off, cursing as Kloppman turned her hand this way and that. "That's all I rememba. Dammit Kloppy that hoits!" she yanked away from him.

"Can't be helped," the old man apologized. "Your shoulder is out."

"Damn!" she swore viciously, glaring at the offending limb. Then she sighed in resignation, offering her arm. "Go ahead an' fix it den," she grumbled.

The room fell silent as Kloppman prepared to reset her shoulder. Racetrack hurried forward with a bottle of whiskey. She took a quick slug, then went to put it aside but thought better of it, taking one more swallow before handing it back. She gave a quick nod, her other hand gripping Spot's.

The newsies watched in amazement as the old man pulled steadily on her arm, shoving it back into its socket. If they hadn't hear the sickening "pop" they would never have known anything happened. Pocket didn't make a sound, didn't blink or flinch, just sat calmly watching the proceedings.

David excused himself to go be sick outside. He returned just as Kloppman was wrapping her shoulder in strips of bedsheet, fashioning a makeshift sling.

Ractrack held out the bottle and she took it gratefully. David grimaced as he watched her gulp it down. She gave a satisfied grunt, then seeing that Spot's face had taken on an interesting shade of grey, she offered him the bottle. He upended it, draining the last of the fiery liquid in an effort to control the anger and worry that threatened to overwhelm him. Finished, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and turned to Lucky.

"I'se thinkin' ya got somethin' ta add to the story," he said dryly.

The Bronx leader nodded, cleaning his throat as the newsies looked at him expectantly.

"Me an' Twitchy an' a coupla me other boys wasn't too far away when the bulls gotcha Conlon. Woulds stepped in, but we had our hands full," he explained apologetically.

"So we finally takes care a dem bums, an' we see Pocket fightin' with dat skinny punk. Had her cornered for a second but then she kicked the hell outta his jaw and he fell ovah. So she goes for the kid, cuz the bulls is lookin' at her next. " He paused, shaking his head in admiration. "She's a brawler, is Pocket."

Pocket grinned at the compliment, Spot tightened his arm around her.

"Anyway," Lucky continued. "We'se tryin' ta get over to help her, cuz she's carryin' da kid up them stairs, ovah her shoulders like. Kid ain't dat big, but Pocket ain't neither and she was havin' a tough time. We got to the stairs right when she hit the top, and she runs smack into a handful a Crips. She fought 'em a bit, but she was still holdin' onta the kid. Thought she had 'em for a second, she went nuts when they pulled the kid away, just tackled the biggest guy. But it didn't work. One of the guys pushed the kid down the stairs and she spit on him." He looked grim. "Fat bastard just laughed and tossed her down right afta."

Lucky's face was set in anger. He'd always has a soft spot for Pocket, who'd lived mostly in his territory back in her pickpocket days. Spot looked ready to do murder. The two leaders shared a significant look, silently agreeing to go after the Crips when the strike was over.

"Me boys wanted to soak the sons-a-bitches, but the bulls was comin' for Pocket and the kid, so we had to cheese it quick. Grabbed 'em and ducked out the back. Pocket woke up halfway back to the Bronx, an' she put up a fight, wantin' ta come back ta 'Hatten." He shot her a teasing look. "Thought I was gonna have to knock her out again."

"Like ya could," she snorted. Spot gave her a look.

"She passed out again, an' didn't wake up till latah. Foist thing she did, afta she checked on the kid, was try to run back here afta yer sorry ass, Conlon. I wanted to lay low back at the Lodgin', didn't wanna be runnin around, case the bulls were still out. She weren't too happy 'bout it, but she had to stay cuz she couldn't haul the kid back to 'Hatten on her own. Soon as we woke up dis mornin' she was houndin' me ta bring 'em back here."

" How come ya had to be carried back, Pocket?" Spot wanted to know. "What else is wrong with ya?" he ran his hands over her legs, checking for injuries.

"Jesus, Spot, I'se fine," she complained. "Just banged up is all. I coulda walked back ovah here fine, but himself ovah there kept whinin' that I was too slow."

"Ya was too slow." Lucky retorted. "Walkin' like an old lady. People was startin' ta give us funny looks."

"Yeah, " she said sarcastically. "Cuz nobody noticed when ya carried me through the street."

Lucky shot her a fake dirty look, she responded with a rude gesture.

"What about you fellas?" she changed the subject, not ready to deal with Spot's questions and worries. "Thought for sure yous'd all be locked up still."

"Nah, just for the night," Race spoke up. "They was gonna send us to the refuge for a coupla weeks cuz we ain't got five bucks each for the fines. But our man Denton showed up and forked ovah the dough ta get us out."

"Yeah, but Race, where's Cowboy?" she questioned.

Racetrack's face fell, he glanced around at the somber faces of his fellow newsies.

"They kept Jack," he said sadly