Disclaimer: The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes.

--

The Sparrow

When Sarah disappears, it's up to David to go looking for her.
With only a simple clue to where she could have gone, and the understanding that he's in over his head,
it won't take him too long to discover that his sister wasn't the only one with a secret.

--

I mean, you would think that in a bunkroom of this size, with so many full bunks, that there would be some ruckus. Perhaps a little racket. But there wasn't. If anything, I could hear a faint hum echoing throughout the wide room, a mixture of a few snores and a snuffle or two. And that was it.

As I lay on the flat bunk, my head sunken into an unfamiliar pillow, I wondered why that was. This level of quiet seemed unnatural, almost like there was some higher power enforcing it. My thoughts immediately turned to MacCauley—he seemed the sort of caretaker to demand silence.

Following the others' lead, I tried to be as quiet as I could. It wasn't difficult; despite being known as a 'Walking Mouth', I found I had nothing I wanted to say, or anyone to tell it to. For once, silence came easy to me.

I let my thoughts drift to my sister as I closed my eyes to block out the faint candlelight that flooded the bunkroom. I was sleeping in Midtown, spending my first night in a lodging house. Where was she? Was she really with the Sparrow? And if she was, then why… why was he so interested in her? And, more than anything, who was he?

Sarah was a bit of a free spirit, an outspoken girl, I knew, but she'd never done anything so out of character before. While Papa encouraged her and Mama humored her, she knew her role and she knew her place. Good Jewish girls stayed home—first with their mothers, then with their husbands.

Her brief romance with Jack Kelly was a fling, I think everyone knew that. It was kept as chaste as possible—under Mama's eagle eye, that was extremely possible—as if it was an experiment, a chance for Sarah to get over this childishness before she graduated to full-fledged womanhood. Jack was as good a choice as any; my parents found him charming and his flighty behavior ensured them that this was a fling that would not last.

When Sarah told the family that Jack's visits to the apartment would be scarce, I think both of my parents sighed in relief. Their romance had carried on longer than expected and, for that, I was glad. I'd been nervous that, when their courtship ended, so would my friendship with Jack. Lessons had already put a strain on that friendship but, whenever me and Les met Jack at the Distribution Center, he was the same as always: cocky but kind and entirely full of it.

For just a moment, my thoughts switched from Sarah's simple beauty to Alfie's dusty, dirty face. Cocky yet kind, just the way I always thought of Jack. In control, without a trace of fear or doubt that his every word would be believed… I don't know, Jack and Alfie seemed like two peas in a pod. Very much the same.

And, in their own ways, I could see the similarities between MacCauley and Kloppman. While I definitely preferred the harsh wisdom that Kloppman's obvious age awarded him, he had a way of commanding respect that seemed to come as easily to MacCauley. It might've been because Kloppman was compassionate and caring underneath his somewhat gruff nature, and MacCauley was just a big bully, but I respected them both regardless.

I turned over, still trying to stay as quiet as I could. My stomach was heavy and I was able to recognize the feeling for what it was: nerves rather than hunger. I was uncomfortable—nervous—and it had to do with the comparisons I'd just made.

Alfie and Jack, Kloppman and MacCauley. They had a camaraderie between them, though I figured none of them had met their counterpart, and it was that camaraderie—coupled with the strange awareness that an eerily quiet bunkroom gave me—that made me realize just how alone I was.

I was David Jacobs, a poor schmuck who was tossed in between these two different, yet strangely similar, worlds. I didn't belong here in Midtown, just as I never really belonged over on Duane Street. I didn't really belong anywhere.

The sad thing, I thought as I felt my exhausted body relax, sleep finally claiming me, was that I was the only one who didn't belong. Les, he could spit and cuss (whenever Mama wasn't around) with the best of the newsies; my role was as his brother, his protector. Sometimes I had the feeling that Les was doing a better job protecting me.

Even Sarah, she belonged more than I did. After all—at the very least—she'd known all about the Sparrow.

As my consciousness drifted away, slipping into a dream where Sarah was back at home and sparrows were simply birds that flew in the sky, I made myself a promise. I wasn't going to do anything else, apart from going to Brooklyn where I would hopefully find them, until I knew the answers to three particular things—

One: I wanted to know what happened to Sarah, what Jack did to her.

Two: I wanted to know why the Sparrow was so darn interested in my sister.

And, most importantly, three: I wanted to know just who the Sparrow was. What was it that made him so special, so revered that he could do… whatever it was that he did?

I hoped Teller—if she really came back like she said she would—would be up to helping me get some answers tomorrow. She was the only chance that I had.

--

The first thing I noticed when I woke up the next morning was that it was even quieter than it had been the night before. There was a slight snuffle, maybe a snore, and it took me a second to realize that the sound was coming from me.

I don't know how long I slept but it wasn't anywhere near enough. My legs were stiff, my back sore and I had blisters on my feet the size of a bottle cap. I hadn't taken my shoes off before I'd fallen asleep and it felt like there was pus squishing between my toes. There was no way I was taking them off now; no matter the relief, the stink wouldn't be worth it.

Speaking of stink, I realized I must have moved during the night. Maybe it was because my back was so achy, but I was resting on my stomach, my face pressed up against the hard pillow. Right after slowly coming to, I took a deep breath and nearly gagged on the putrid stench of moldy cheese and dirty feet that seeped from the material.

If I wasn't awake before, I was now. Quiet or no quiet, I couldn't fall back asleep with that disgusting smell in my nose.

Rubbing the sleep from my eyes while breathing in shallowly through my mouth, I sat up slowly, ignoring the protest from my body. I hurt so bad that I couldn't even imagine continuing on with my journey into Brooklyn. Nevertheless, that was exactly what I was planning to do.

As I turned over, untangling myself from a moth-eaten blanket so that I could rest on my backside, one thing caught my attention before anything else. Those faded brown suspenders that had been hanging off the edge of the bunk were gone.

I sighed in relief, glad I'd slept through that. I wasn't feeling much up to a confrontation and—stinky pillow and all—I was grateful that I'd been able to sleep in a bunk. Leaning over, I decided the floor didn't look half as comfortable as I thought it did last night.

It was when I was looking down that I understood the reason behind the intense quiet—nobody was left in the bunkroom but me. I quickly turned my head this way and that but that was the truth. Every bunk but mine was empty.

I probably should have experienced a bit of panic that every single one of the Midtown lodgers had got up and left already. For the most part, I hated being late and it was definitely unnerving, sitting in this vacant room all alone.

However, there was no denying the relief I felt. I'd been surprised that none of the other fellas gave me a hard time last night. Without Alfie to help me out this morning, I'd expected some kind of questions or comments on my presence. It was nice that I would be able to wash up and head on out without any spectators.

Now, if only MacCauley would be gone from his desk…

I kept that vain hope to myself as I quickly climbed out of my borrowed bunk and scurried down the wooden ladder. I missed the bottom rung and landed with a small thud, barely dodging a pull toy that was lodged under the lower bunk.

There was a washing station, complete with mirrors, a water pump and a tub, at the far end of the bunkroom. I knew there wasn't much time to spend washing up but I couldn't leave to meet Teller without getting rid of some of the grime that was coating my hands and my face.

There wasn't much soap and I had to make do with a brown sliver I found floating in one of the basins. It didn't smell much better than that pillow, and my hands stung a little when I was done, but at least I was cleaner than I had been.

Teller, when I finally met up with her in front of the lodging house, was not.

After trying my best to tiptoe back down the stairs to the lobby in order to sneak past the superintendent—which ended up being pointless since the lobby was as empty as the bunkroom was—I hurried outdoors, hoping my obvious lateness didn't mean Teller wasn't going to be there waiting for me.

She was.

Her back leaning up against the façade, her arms crossed over her chest as she studied the dismal gray clouds above, she looked exactly the way I remembered her from yesterday—except worse.

My footsteps were hesitant and they alerted her to my approach. Whipping her head around, I nearly gasped when I saw her face. It was dusty and dirty, and there was a deep shadow on the hollow of her left cheek that almost looked like it was a bruise—I hoped, for her sake, that it was just more dirt. Her eyes were nearly swallowed up by the dark circles under her eyes; her braid from the day before was almost unraveled, thick strands escaping from their ties.

All in all, she looked a mess. I thought I might've had a rough night's sleep but Teller… she looked like she hadn't slept at all.

The guilt I felt was sudden and overwhelming. I knew I should never have taken her last nickel.

Teller must have caught the way that I was gawking and, before I even had the chance to open my mouth and apologize, she quickly began to talk.

She asked me how I slept and I tried to answer her as honestly as I could. It was difficult to put into words how unsettling it had been, surrounded by all those boys but hearing nothing. After she stifled an unladylike snort, I stopped trying to explain. I didn't appreciate her reaction and, besides, I was more interested in how she slept.

I was betting she didn't but, like yesterday, something in the set of her razor-thin smile that pressed me to keep my thoughts to myself.

A bit surprisingly, my sudden quiet didn't mean that she was done with her part of the conversation. I had the idea that she wanted to keep my mind off of the way she looked; she kept her head turned away from and she stared at her feet as she continued to ramble on, speaking so quickly that I wouldn't have had the chance to add anything.

Completely avoiding the subject of how she'd spent the night, Teller started walking—I followed alongside her, like a little lost puppy dog—as she told me just how long she'd been waiting for me. I was beginning to think that I couldn't feel any guiltier and I wonder if that was her idea, too.

I brushed that thought aside as the topic abruptly switched from this morning to this afternoon. Without even expecting me to join in, she spoke quickly and firmly, planning out the journey into Brooklyn that she was so keen to take me on.

"I figure it's late enough now," she said, and I felt that same twinge of guilt again, "that, by the time we cross the bridge, we'll find Conlon and Cowboy plotting together on the docks. Given the situation, I don't think neither one of them's gonna go out and sell but, hey, what do I know? They might be tryin' to hide this from some others," she said, shrugging, "but I got a feeling 'bout those two. Stick with me, Dave, and we'll find your sister."

That was one thing about Teller. As I followed her aimlessly, watching her navigate these unfamiliar streets, she sounded way more confident that I felt. Maybe it was because she obviously knew far more about this… what did she call it? Situation? She knew far more about this situation than I did but, I don't know, her words did very little to comfort me.

Still, I was grateful for her company and for her help. If she could even take me as far as the Brooklyn Bridge itself, that would be enough. I knew the rest of the way to the docks myself and I was pretty sure, once I'd confronted Jack and Spot, I'd get the answer to at least one of my three questions.

But there was one I was really curious about, one I thought Teller might just answer.

I waited until she paused long enough to take a breath—she was talking about how long it would take to finish our walk; I could already feel the pulsing blisters I would have tomorrow—before taking the opportunity to jump in.

"Teller, can I ask you a question?"

"And what would that be, David?"

For the first time today since we met at the lodging house, Teller actually looked me in the eye. There was a strange expression on her face, her lips curved in that same, strange crooked grin; her body language, on the other hand, said she wasn't as amused as she was pretending to be. She stood on guard, her back arched and her arms tensed.

I couldn't understand her sudden change in behavior and I almost chickened out of asking her my question. I took a step away from her, almost involuntarily, but I retained my resolve. Besides, what was the worst she could do? Just tell me to mind my own business, right?

Right.

"Who… who is the Sparrow?"

The Sparrow has my sister. It is my business.

Author's Note: Ooh, ugly cliffhanger, ain't it? But, on the plus side, Teller's definitely going to answer the question -- in her own way -- in the next chapter ;) Until then... enjoy!

-- stress, 08.09.08