Blue eyes opened slowly and groggily. It was another morning to an endless day. Spot Conlon stared up at the ceiling of his Manhattan home for a couple of long minutes. Ugh. He felt so connected to the white bed sheets and lumpy mattress that it was impossible for him to get up. The back of his neck was cold and damp from the intense dreams he had been having lately, and he felt as though his head weighed fifty pounds.

Still, the dawn sunlight was creeping in through the window above the bed, casting a cheerful glow upon the messy bed. He looked to the left—the shadow of a bird fluttering near the window danced across the blank, brown wall of the bedroom. To his right was the mattress's absence of Gabby, the mother of his baby boy Noah. She always got up earlier than he did; he commended her on that.

Noises from the rest of the one-bedroom apartment began to ring out through his ears. The sound of Noah's high-pitched laugh came from the kitchen just outside the bedroom, along with the shuffling of feet about the wooden floorboards. They had both gotten up, therefore Spot decided to get up. After all, he did have to get to work.

"G'morning," Spot greeted in a tired voice as he stepped into the kitchen.

Gabby spun around from the stovetop, the wisps of her loosely tied-back hair falling across the side of her fair-skinned face. Noah sat perched upon her hip with Gabby's arm securely around him. The infant's big, sapphire blue eyes (acquired from his father, no doubt) stared across the space to Spot. Another shriek of laughter slipped from Noah's mouth, causing Spot to smile lightly.

"Honey, watch!" said Gabby happily. She stepped away from the stove and set Noah down upon the table's surface, her hands still holding onto his stomach. "Are you watching?" she asked Spot anxiously.

"Yeah." Spot eyed her skeptically, unsure of what to be looking for.

Gabby then took her hands away from Noah so that he sat up on his own. An excited grin danced across her face as she let out two, very small but very giddy leaps on her toes. Spot stared at Noah, half expecting him to stand up and walk around the whole kitchen; he didn't know what the big deal was.

"He's sitting up by himself!" Gabby told him.

Spot raised his eyebrows and let out an "ooh" of astonishment. Weren't all babies supposed to do that? It wasn't as if Noah was taking his first steps or saying his first word…

"Oh, shut up," teased Gabby. "It's the first time he's ever been able to do it. It's a big step for babies to sit up without any help. I've been trying to get him to for the past three weeks."

Gimme a break, thought Spot. I'm new at this. Even so, he smiled in spite of himself, growing a bit happier by the second. It was the beginning of September 1901, and Noah Patrick had been born nearly six months, to the day, earlier.

Spot sat down at the table with Noah sitting in front of him. His hand rubbed the baby's light brown hair that tended to stand up on occasion; the color resembled Gabby's perfectly. Noah's curious eyes looked up at Spot, his chubby mouth open. Spot's eyes flickered over to the clock on the living room wall. 6:14.

"Shit." Spot backed out of his chair quickly and ran to the door.

Gabby looked up from the scrambling eggs on the stovetop. "What?"

"I'm late," said Spot as he headed for the door. "I'll be right back!"

In just his brown wool trousers and a pair of socks, Spot raced down the long and narrow apartment hallway towards the washroom. He had exactly sixteen minutes to dress and run eight blocks to Bedford Furniture, where he and two other boys of his age worked for Robert Bedford building wooden furniture in the backroom. The last two times he had been late, Mr. Bedford had threatened to fire him without a final paycheck. Third time's a charm, thought Spot.

He reached for the brass doorknob only to have it opened from the other side. Mrs. Walton, a grumpy woman of religion and sixty-five years, stood before him with a tub of damp, freshly washed clothing in her hands. As soon as she greeted Spot, an irritated expression took over her usually aggravated face. Mrs. Walton was a widow of twelve years, and had never appreciated nor been fond of Spot and Gabby's move to the building several months ago. Her dislike of the couple only worsened once she found Gabby to be pregnant and the couple out of wedlock. The fact that Spot was without a shirt only made matters worse.

"If it isn't Conlon," snarled Mrs. Walton, with a special twinge of scowl on his name. Her pale pink lips pursed into asneer that only accentuated the wrinkles around her pallid face. "Running late again, I see?"

"Uh, yeah," replied Spot blankly. He made to move to the side so she would move along, and he would gain entrance to the washroom.

"You know, I saw Gabrielle and that baby a few nights ago," Mrs. Walton added disdainfully, pushing Spot, who was already to the side, so she could get through. "How do you think the big guy upstairs feels about you and your girlfriend, seeing as how she isn't your wife?"

Spot glared at the stout old woman icily. Nobody called his boy "that baby." And he knew she was referring to God with the last bit.

"Well, if ya really wanna know, I guess you could go all the way upstairs and ask Mr. McDowell ya'self."

Mrs. Walton scoffed, offended at the smart-ass response, and turned on her heels to go back to her apartment, making off-handed comments about the Irish the entire way. Spot shut the door and went over to the sink, added a glob of toothpaste to his brush, and scrubbed his mouth hurriedly.

Mrs. Walton's other comment about Spot and Gabby's relationship had also scratched a nerve: He and Gabby were not married. As far as he could tell, they were pretty much married as it is. They lived together, had a child, and he took care of them. Spot didn't see the point in making it a huge deal.

He spat out the bitter-tasting toothpaste and noticed drops of blood. Obviously, the irritation had driven him to scrub too hard. With a splash of water to his face, he dashed out the door and back down the hallway again.

"When do you think you'll be home tonight?" Gabby called from the kitchen while Spot dressed in the bedroom. She heard a thump against the floor followed by a round of curses, and suppressed the chuckle growing in her throat.

"Uh…I'm not sure. I think around nine…"

Gabby sighed as she fed a bowl of mashed apples to Noah, who rejected nearly every spoonful. She couldn't blame him.

"But Dave's leavin' fer school tomorrow," Spot added suddenly. "I think me and the guys're goin' out…"

Gabby groaned to herself. Ever since Noah was born, Spot had been coming home late from work, and frequently going out with the boys afterward—Jack Kelly, Racetrack Higgins, Skittery Rockwell, and David Jacobs. Gabby often joked to herself that Spot had also had babies with them, as opposed to her. Sure, they had their evenings together; but when they did, it was also in the attendance of a very needy baby. It was as if Spot didn't want to face reality just yet...

"I won't be home too late," said Spot as he rushed out of the room buttoning up his navy blue shirt. He scooped a forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth. Just before leaving, he gave Gabby a long kiss on the forehead.

"Love you!" he said while darting towards the door.

"Love you," Gabby responded, though he was already out the door and bounding down the staircase. She attempted to feed another bit of apple to Noah, who refused it angrily and turned his head. She touched the place where Spot had kissed her and sighed once more to herself.