It wasn't fast enough. As Spot drove his legs against the cold ground he damned himself for not being fast enough. It didn't matter that the paper said "six dead." To him, the entire lodging house was deceased. This was his fault, he felt. This was his doing. He wasn't of Brooklyn anymore.

When Spot reached the lodging house, his heart stopped. Among the streets of passersby and marketers and women and children, a decrepit building barely stood tall and crumbling in front of him. The solitary outlining of its brick held up the blackened wood and beams that scarcely stood up. Ashes littered the streets in front of it amongst the snowflakes, making it difficult to differentiate the two. Firemen still continued inspecting the house; the blaze had spread to nearby buildings as well.

Spot stood doubled over, his numb hands gripping his trembling knees. He panted, out of breath and in absolute horror, even for a kid who knew a life of rebellion and street-fighting all his life. His entire childhood had erupted up in flames in one night.

After moments of shock, he noticed something that caught his eye once a divide in the crowd had taken place. Bolt stood directly in front of the building on the other side of the wide street. His clothes were tattered with smoke marks and rips. His hands stuffed deep into the scanty pockets of his trousers, a blank and dead expression on his darkened face. Spot walked toward him, his heart beating wildly.

He gripped Bolt's shoulder from his side and stared at his profile. The only thing that moved in Bolt's being was his jaw that shuddered only from the cold temperatures. His lips were blue and thin. He looked worse than dead, for he was alive.

"You only knew two 'a them," said Bolt quietly after a moment.

Spot gulped and stared hard at his friend.

"Johnny and Noodle. The rest were new. They were young." Bolt's voice was just as emotionless as the rest of him. His eyes continued to stare, unblinking, at the ruin ahead of them. "They were so young, Spot. And I didn't fall back for 'em."

Spot balled his hands into fists and squeezed his eyes shut as tightly as possible. In his mind he saw Spits, the boy on the street corner he had met yesterday. Johnny and Noodle. They were young. A rage that Spot never knew he could have erupted inside of him and he did not know what to do with it. He couldn't hit something; there wasn't anything to hit. He couldn't scream or yell; there wasn't anything to say.

"How'd it happen, Bolt?" asked Spot quietly. Suddenly, he grabbed his shoulders and faced him with force. "Look at me, Bolt! Tell me what happened!"

"It was around midnight or so…we was sleepin' and all I remember is someone yellin' there was a fire…ev'ryone just got out as best they could…but there was all this pushin' and shovin', tryin' to get out all the same spots. The fire blocked the windows and we couldn't use 'em…we all tried gettin' down the staircase."

Bolt looked down, showing more sign of movement.

"I shoulda been the last one outta there, Spot. I wasn't. I saved my skin just barely, and the worst part is that I looked back and saw the fire catch on to somethin'…I didn't do anything, Spot. Six of 'em died. That's six too many."

And the two stood there, former brothers, staring at the place they had both called home at a time. No words were spoken, no conversation exchanged. The fire had done enough speaking for itself. Spot asked him how it had started.

"They think it was a candle. I know bettah than that. I know it wasn't a goddamn candle. It was Harlem and Queens. I know it. I ain't an idiot. Don't take a dumbass to strike a match."

Spot and Bolt walked across the Brooklyn Bridge together, still saying very little. The other newsies from Brooklyn had already gone to Manhattan to stay at the lodging house there. Spot had offered his home to Bolt for a few nights as he realized how crowded it would be over there. Bolt refused, saying he did not want to intervene with him and Gabby.

A thought struck Spot, almost as badly as when he saw the fire. Gabby. He barely knew her anymore, much like he didn't know Bolt. He slept with another girl yesterday. Several times in one afternoon. A vicious fear ran through Spot's body that something would happen to Gabby as well. If something this bad could happen to Bolt, he didn't want to think of what would happen to her. He needed to get to her.

Bold had already told him he did not want to discuss any plans for attack on Harlem or Queens for the day. They would meet up again tomorrow with the leaders of Manhattan, and maybe even Jack and Racetrack. He needed to rest on it, to take it all in. Spot didn't object.

Spot Conlon was about to do the bravest thing he had ever done: walk up to his apartment and face the girl he considered the absolute love of his life, even though he hadn't felt it in a long time. He hadn't touched her, held her, kissed her…in an eternity.

He walked through the doorframe of his home and stood there, hoping to hear Gabby's voice or Noah's laughter. In a perfect world, he would be coming home from work with a rose in his hand for his wife; Gabby would be in the middle of cooking dinner and Noah would be playing on the couch, smiling and giggling. But it was reality, and Spot came home to an empty apartment.

He took a seat in the middle of the living room floor, staring at the door in a sort of trance. He thought that if he imagined it hard enough, Gabby would magically appear with that beautiful smile across her fair cheeks, a lock of her brown hair falling carelessly across her forehead. But it didn't happen. Spot spent the entire afternoon and evening down on that floor. He lay down, eyes still on the doorframe, until he eventually drifted off into a sleep.

It wasn't until the middle of the night did Spot wake up. The clock on the wall told him it was eleven, and the entire apartment was dark, save for the full moon providing a shockingly bright light that spilled onto a selected section of the home. Spot sat up and rubbed his eyes. He didn't see Gabby next to him or feel her sleeping next to him. But he did hear something.

Across the room, their bedroom door was open just a crack. There was movement about, but nothing threatening or ominous. Spot walked himself over to their bedroom and saw Gabby sleeping deeply on their bed. On the space where Spot normally slept, was Noah.

The seven month-old infant sat upright on the sheets close to Gabby. His mouth was open as he stared at Spot. Spot stared back. The two sets of sapphire blue eyes watched one another expectantly for a couple of long moments.

"You don't look so bad," said Spot to his son. Why would Gabby complain about him that much?

Noah continued to stare back at him. Spot walked over and, hesitating briefly, picked up Noah Conlon. He held him in his arms, slightly nervous (though he would never admit to that). Spot carried him in one arm and closed the door behind him quietly as they exited the bedroom.

Spot lit a candle on the kitchen table, a very small flame to be sure, and sat on a chair that faced at an angle the window. He held Noah close to his chest as he felt around Spot's hair and nose and cheeks. A smile, not even close to being annoyed, graced his face as he played with Noah's teeny, little fingers.

Occasionally the infant's curious eyes would wander off out the window at the spectacular moon. Spot picked him up ever so gently and placed him on the end table that hugged the wall. He rubbed Noah's soft, brown hair that just covered his head. Spot was unsure of where it was coming from, this fascination with a baby.

There was something about the look in Noah's big, beautiful eyes that gave Spot peace. It was the first time he had ever really paid full attention to his son. It was calming, almost inspiring; Noah was so transfixed on that moon that it brought a sense of tranquility and wonder to the eighteen-year-old father. He crossed his arms on the table surface and rested his chin on them; he just couldn't take his eyes off his baby boy. That was his. Not in possession or excuse against Gabby in a fight, but Spot helped create this tiny human being. One day Noah was going to grow up and would hopefully go to school; have a best friend or two, like he had Bolt; meet a girl and they would get married, out of love, of course. Then they would have their own baby, and Gabby and Spot would look at each other and say, "Yeah…we actually got it right."

Something unexpected then happened: a tear came to Spot's eye. It crept up on him while he gazed at Noah, almost alarming him. But the peace Noah gave him was so gentle that Spot simply wiped it away and smiled.

A long time later, when Noah was showing signs of sleepiness, Spot picked him up and rested him on his chest. The two Conlon's sat back in the chair and relaxed. Spot rubbed his hand gently and slowly on Noah's back, and soon, he drifted off to sleep as well.

Very early the next morning, as the red sun was just barely over the horizon, Gabby opened her tired eyes and sat up abruptly, seeing that Noah wasn't there. A sickened feeling in the pit of her stomach jolted her awake as she ran to his crib. She rushed to the door and looked around.

She had to rub her eyes a few times to make sure she was seeing correctly; Noah and Spot were fast asleep on the chair in the corner. It was the man she loved. And for the first time, in a long time, Gabby felt that everything was going to be okay.