Pocket was silent the whole way back to Manhattan. A couple of times, Racetrack tried to talk to her but she just shook her head. He saw how hard she was fighting to keep calm and he left her alone.

Blink and Skittery were sitting outside the Lodging House when Pocket and Race walked up; Pocket brushed past them without a word. They turned questioning eyes to Racetrack.

"What happened?" Blink asked, worried by his friends expression.

Race paced back and forth, swearing.

"Went ovah the Bridge, so's she could talk ta Spot," he told them. "When we got there, we see Spot comin outta his room half dressed with some tart hangin all ovah him, kissin him."

"Bastard," Skittery swore.

"Exactly."

"What'd Pocket do ta the goil?" Blink asked.

"Nothin," Race shook his head. "She threw a bottle at the wall and it busted all ovah Spot, but then she just walked out."

"What about Spot?" Skittery wanted to know. "What'd he do?"

"Tried ta go afta her."

"Whaddya mean, he tried?" Skittery pressed.

Racetrack smirked. "I decked him."

Both newsies stared at him, jaws gaping.

"You hit Spot Conlon?" Skittery asked, sure he hadn't heard correctly.

Race nodded.

"In Brooklyn?" Blink put in. Race nodded again.

"With all his boys around?" Skitts looked doubtful.

"Yup."

"Jesus, Race," Blink muttered. "Is this your ghost we'se talkin with?"

"Nah," Race laughed humorlessly. "Weirdest thing. They grabbed me, but he made 'em let me go."

Skitts whistled softly. "You'se one lucky kid, Race."

"No kiddin."

A noise nearby made them look up. All three of them tensed, on the alert.

"Who's that?" Blink called out.

A shuffling noise, then three figures emerged from the dark. Race recognized them as being from Brooklyn, and wondered if Spot had sent them after him.

"Whatcha doin sneakin around Manhattan?" Blink spoke accusingly. "Shouldn't ya be back ovah in Brooky?"

"Hell, fellas," the tallest of them spoke up. "We ain't here for no trouble, just makin' sure Pocket made it back."

"Why," Skittery questioned, suspicious.

"Spot told us to."

"Lemme get this straight," Race said slowly. "Spot told ya to follow us back here, make sure Pocket made it home?"

"Sure," the Brooky shrugged. "Just like we always do."

Nodding thoughtfully, Racetrack tucked that bit of information away to think on later.

Blink spoke up again. "Yeah, well she's here. So ya can run along back across the bridge where ya belong. She's with us now."

"Right," Skittery added. "An' tell Conlon ta keep his ass outta Manhattan. Don't come lookin for her."

The three outsiders shot them dirty looks but kept quiet, melting back into the shadows.

"Shit," Blink grumbled. "Think he'll come around, tamarra?"

"I hope not," said Skitts.

Racetrack sighed and headed inside.

"I'm gonna go check on Pocket."

He found her on the roof, perched on the edge with her legs dangling over the side. Easing himself down next to her, Race lit a cigarette and handed it to her. She took it wordlessly and he saw that her hand was shaking.

He lit a cigarette for himself, and the two of them sat quietly, staring out at the darkened buildings. Every so often, she would gasp softly, as though holding back tears. Race tried not to push her, tried to wait until she was ready to talk, but he couldn't take the silence any more.

"I'm sorry," he told her softly.

"No big deal." She almost pulled off a careless shrug. "He was a pain in the ass anyways."

"Yeah," he nodded.

"Kinda irritatin' if ya think about it," she went on.

"Yeah."

"Thinks he knows everything," she complained.

"Thinks he's better then the rest of us," Race offered.

"And bossy." Pocket was warming to the subject.

"Stubborn."

"Cocky."

"Salty."

"Jealous."

"Sneaky."

"Ruthless. An' selfish, an' grumpy, an', an' . . ." she faltered. "An' smart, an' brave, an' funny, an' fair, an' strong, an' oh God, Race." Her voice broke.

She hid her face in her hand, shoulders shaking.

"I nevah woulda believed it," she whispered, "if I hadn't seen it with me own eyes. I nevah woulda believed ya if ya told me. No matter what, I always trusted him."

She lifted her head, her face streaked with tears.

"But I saw him, Race," she choked. "I saw him, hair all messed up, not hardly wearin anythin. Lettin that . . . whore . . . slither all ovah him. An' whisperin in her ear. She kissed him, Race! An' then struts around like she's some kind of special." She took a deep breath, then sobbed helplessly, "He looked right at me like it didn't even mattah!"

He pulled her into a hug. She buried her face in his shoulder, silently weeping. Racetrack rocked her gently, like a baby, humming softly, tunelessly. He didn't know how long they sat there until finally she seemed to run out of tears.

Pocket needed help to get back inside, her limbs were heavy with exhaustion and she could barely hold her head up. She collapsed weakly on her bunk, curling into her pillow. Race sat on the edge of the bed, patting her back until she fell asleep.

Even after her shuddering sobs subsided into the deep, even breath of sleep he sat there. Confusion furrowed his brow as he puzzled over what had happened. Back in Brooklyn, his initial shock had been pushed aside by anger and a brotherly protectiveness. Now, in the dark quiet of the lodging house, he was only sad.

It don't fit, he thought. Like Pocket, Race found it hard to believe what Spot had done. They both knew that Spot took girls out because people expect the leader of Brooklyn to be a ladies man. Racetrack had always thought that those girls were just for show, and Pocket had always trusted Spot. But as hard as it was to accept, Race couldn't deny what he'd seen. Even so, a tiny niggling doubt poked at the corner of his mind.

He replayed it over and over in his head, noticing things that hadn't registered the first time. Things like the look on Spot's face as he walked down the stairs. He'd hidden it well, but Race didn't miss the irritation that thinned his lips. Things like the way the girl had clung to Spot, rubbing against him, but Spot hadn't had a hand on her.

Racetrack remembered other things too. Like the way Spot had turned his head when she kissed him, so she kissed his cheek instead of his mouth. And the way he had stumbled when he tried to walk, and the smell of whiskey that clung to him. Many, many times had Race seen Spot drunk, but he'd never had that glazed, vacant look before.

Mostly, Race remembered the brief flash of pain and desperation in Spot's eyes when Pocket walked out. If he didn't know better, Race would say that the Brooklyn leader was about to cry.

It don't fit, he thought again. It just didn't add up. Racetrack didn't think that Spot was innocent, not exactly, but he was getting the impression that there may be more to the story.

A soft sniffle drew his attention back to Pocket. She was crying again, in her sleep, tears leaking swiftly from her tightly closed eyes. Race realized then that he'd never seen her cry. Not once in the five years he'd known her through countless brawls and streetfights. Not once. Not until tonight.

Suddenly he didn't care about the look on Spot's face or his drunken stupor. It didn't matter that the sleazy blonde's attention may have been unwanted. Racetrack Higgins couldn't give a damn if Spot had messed with that girl or not, because whatever happened, it made Pocket cry. And that was enough to make him hate his former friend in Brooklyn.