The sun had all but disappeared, bathing the cold, wet streets of New York City in a bleak, pathetic light that one would more readily associate with the early evening that with it being barely past noon. Snow fell silently on the gloomy December day, gathering in slick, disgusting piles and making the cobblestone streets appear even dirtier than they already were.

A young man stood on Duane Street, looking entirely out of place with his streaky blond hair and well-established tan uncharacteristic of these parts in this season. The people who passed him stared, they didn't know him, didn't recognize him, but he knew them almost as well as he knew these streets.

Directly across from the place where he stood was a sad, dilapidated building where mold grew visibly on the windows that weren't already broken and haphazardly papered. A poorly painted sign hung above the door, barely resisting the wind, bearing three simple words: Newsboys Lodging House.

The man sighed as he stared, shaking his head. He'd never looked at this building from this point of view, never saw it as sad or run down as it was now. He'd always seen it as warm and inviting despite its loosening brick and drafty rooms. But, somewhere far in the back of his mind, he still saw the same thing he saw every day of his life when he was young: home.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

The lobby provided shelter from the wind and snow but little else; it was doubtful that there was even the slightest change in temperature inside from out, even with the fire going in the tiny fireplace. Little had changed – the same beat-up chairs and threadbare rugs rested by the large window, looking as if they'd been there since the beginning of time. Even the paint and wallpaper, faded and peeling though they were, were the same. It was actually kind of charming.

"Help you, mister?" A man of about thirty popped up behind the counter, looking well-weathered but kind.

"Um, yeah. Kloppmann still run this place?" The blond man asked, looking around a little more.

The man behind the counter clicked his tongue and shook his head. "Naw, he ain't around no more. Died 'bout four, five years back... consumption." He shrugged sadly and rubbed at a spot on the counter. "Hey, how'd you know Kloppmann? You don't look like you're from around here."

"I used to be," the blond said. "I lived here for years when I was a kid. Left 'bout ten years back, though, I guess it's been."

"No kiddin'. Man, I used to run this place like I was the damn king. You look kinda familiar, come to think of it. What'd they call you?"

"Name's Zach Erickson, but the fellas here all called me Blink. Kid Blink."

The man behind the counter laughed out loud. "Shoulda known by the patch." He hopped over the counter, grinning from ear to ear. "Now, I know you remember the mighty Jack Kelly."

"You gotta be kiddin' me. Cowboy gave up Santa Fe and cares for the newsies now."

Jack Kelly flashed him another grin. "Yeah, well, couldn't think of nothin' better to do, an' Kloppmann asked me to see over this sorry place." He looked around the tiny room, shrugging. "As you can clearly see, I done a damn fine job."

Kid Blink laughed. "Looks just the same as it did when I left."

"Yeah, where'd you go, anyhow? We never heard a word from you after you left."

Blink shrugged with a sad kind of smile. "Texas."

"Well, you look like Texas is at least treatin' you pretty good." Jack looked over his old friend, taking in the odd sight: the expensive coat, warm, fitted knickers, shoes free of wholes... nothing like a newsboy would ever hope to own. "Or you got real good at stealin'."

"You wouldn't believe it," Blink said, laughing. "But I worked my rear off for a couple'a years an' managed to save up enough to buy me some land... an' one day I was diggin' a well and I struck oil."

"So you're one o' them high-rollers now," Jack said with his legendary smirk on his face, nodding.

"I guess you could say that."

"Well, what the hell're you doing back in New York?"

Blink smiled, shrugging. "Doin' some business with a shipping company up here... plus I missed it here, so I thought I'd take a little trip."

"Good Lord, you can afford to take the train to New York for the hell of it. I hate you." Jack punched him lightly in the shoulder.

"Sorry, ain't my fault." Blink laughed and looked at the beaten-up grandfather clock standing against the wall, where it had been probably about as long as the chairs had. "Well... I just wanted to take a look at the place, see it was still standing an' all, but I gotta get going."

"Yeah." Jack nodded. "Hey, how long you here for?"

"Couple more weeks, I guess."

"Well, don't be a stranger, then."

"I won't." Blink headed for the door, then stopped. "Hey, Jack?" He turned to face his friend, pulling a wad of bills from his coat pocket. "Fix this place up. Start with the windows. It's too damn cold for these boys to be sleepin' in a room with the windows broken like that."

Jack's eyebrows shot up in bewilderment. The rich never cared about lowly newsboys. "Thanks, Blink."

Blink nodded and stepped out the door. Smiling a sad sort of smile, he tromped through the snow-covered streets of his old battle ground toward the inn where a fire and something warm to drink awaited him.